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COPVBICHT, 1907, BY 

tfrace Gallatin ftcton 



LIBRARY of congress/ 
Two Cooies Received 
(viAV. 10 190/' 

>,, C»pyriirht Entry 

CLASsO >>\ XXC, No. 

/ 7 (. Y ^3 

COPY B. 




ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF THANSLATION 
IMTO FOREIGN LANOOAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 




TO ONE 

Who. roithout strength, makes slaves of the strong; 
Who, loving none, is loved by all— 

THE BABY 




NOTE TO THE READER 



The events herein recorded really 
happened, although some latitude 
has been taken as to time and place ; 
and one experience may seem to fol- 
low fast upon another, because, nec- 
essarily, the best of all has been 
omitted — the glorious succession of 
eventless days when one was content 
to be alive and carefree. 

G. G. S. 

Cos Cob, Conn., 1907 




CONTENTS 

PART I-IN THE SIERRA 

PAGE 

"The Inn of the Silver 
Moon" . . -15 

II Real Dangers of the Open 
Versus Popular Notion. 
Undine's Story . . ^;^ 



PART II— IN THE ROCKIES 

III The Grand Cafion and 

What it Did to Nimrod 55 

IV A Discursion on the Bron- 

cho . . . .81 

V On the March . . 93 

VI A Fire Ride . . -115 

VII Bear and Forbear . 125 




CONTENTS 

PAGE 

VIII What I Know About 

Mountain Goats — Bob- 
bie's Story . . -145 

IX A Jack Rabbit Dance and 

the Fantail Ghost . 167 

X A Sinew of the Law Dis- 

played . . .195 

XI On the Rosebud — Plenty 

Coups's Peace-pipe . 213 

XII At the Feast of the Dog 

Dance — The Way of 
Arabella Horsetail . 229 

PART III-ON THE OTTAWA 

XIII Te-vis-ca-bing . . .271 

XIV A Canuck's Trick . 287 




CONTENTS 

PAGE 

XV Concerning a New Ac- 
quaintance — The Mus- 
calonge . . -311 

XVI Several Things About 
Moose . . -321 

XVII "Jest Travellin" In Wa- 

ter Country— Creche's 
Ultimatum . . -345 

XVIII One Moose in Particular 367 



PART IV— IN NORWAY 



XIX The New Hunting of 
Reindeer— When I Ate 
the Cake and Had 
It Too . . . 391 




ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

A bath tub for Suzanne to envy 21 

He approached threatening, his 
face evil as boiling pitch . 45 

The road led through the fra- 
grant deep-shadowed pines . 71 

The ride was becoming unpleas- 
urably full of incident . 107 

I lowered the gun and let him go 141 

That ungrateful billy straight- 
way made a vicious charge at 
his benefactor . . . 151' 

A tawny shadow close against 
the red earth . . • 171 

Hippity hop, around and 
around . . . .179 

One actually sat on top of 
the camera . . . •183 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



Whiteswan. A portrait by him- 
self 

Plenty Coups' s ledger 

Two squaws scolding their hus- 
bands, who have been out all 
night .... 

Each in a canoe with a guide 
to paddle .... 

We baled and baled with our 
foolish utensils . . -297 

We all sat like graven images 361 

Across the tiny lake loomed a 
magnificent animal . . 371 

She looked at the fallen mon- 
arch and sniffed in alarm . 383 

A reindeer drawing room . 403 





PART I. 



IN THE SIERRA 




THE INN OF THE SILVER MOON 




fERE you ever in the 
open air through all the 
rounded day with not 
so much as a strip of 
canvas between you 
and the great space 
above? Have you ever watched that 
space put forth its round of blue — 
from palest grey at early morn— chill 
as Ophelia's brook-kissed tresses, to 
warmer — as the dove is grey, like 
the passion of anaemic youth, to 
steel — glittering as the mercenary 
eye, to drab — a brooding menace, 
to slate — even as Othello's sombre 





mien — a certainty 
storm? 

Or, have you ever watched its 
gayer nature from that same chill 
tone at dawn peep forth, little spots 
of blue, like childish laughter dis- 
pelling sterner mood, until the whole 
wide dome is smiling — the blue of 
the asteria; warmer yet as the sun 
mounts — to turquoise, and at last 
the true cerulean, shimmering, blaz- 
ing in all the ripe completed beauty 
of a June garden? Then have you, 
as the hours circled, watched this 
full-blooded light yield its radiance 
to the spirit of evening, gently drift- 
ing to the blue of the ancients, lapis 
lazuli — deeper, deeper yet, until the 
whole wonderful mantle is spread 
over you, a great dark-hearted sap- 
phire ? Then, indeed you have found 
something good. 

I am not asking you, the veteran, 
scarred with wounds and memories, 
nor you, the free-spirited moun- 
taineer or plainsman; but you 
house-ridden dwellers in the cities, 
soul-sick ones, in church, in drawing- 
room, in office, or sweat-shop. Throw 
off your fetters for awhile, your 



prejudice, your narrow-mindedness, 
all the petty things that make your 
daily trappings and take a sun- 
bath with me, give your starved 
soul a chance — the road to the 
outdoors is open to all. And as 
Providence is apparently over-busy 
administering to every feeble soul 
the necessary, properly-mixed tonic 
of self-sacrifice and recompense, 
come with me back to the woods, 
pry open your blind eyes and grow 
as the flowers grow. 





STRONG breeze was stirring 
'SskWi the tree-tops, the shining blue- 
eyed water of Lake Tahoe 
danced happily in its mountain 
home. The largest, fattest trout 
found shelter there, lucky the human 
who could float and dive with them. 
He might feel he was descended 
from the mer-folk, the sea his natural 
habitat, so buoyant is it, so deep, 
so bracing, so everything a water 
should be. 

At least Nimrod said it was all 
these things, said it at great length 
as he stood, fully dressed, with no 




suspicious dampness to be discerned 
upon his locks, and flung chips to 
Undine, who rejoiced audibly while 
bringing them to shore. Undine 
was a black mongrel, a drifter in the 
high country, like ourselves. She 
had served many masters, cattle- 
men, even sheepmen, but the only 
law she permanently obeyed was 
that of the wild. She had attached 
herself to our cavalcade under cir- 
cumstances unexpected as they were 
praiseworthy. But first it seems 
best to record that my "Yes" 
accompanied as it was by a variety 
of exclamation and interrogation 
points, caused Nimrod to say with 
a trace of haste in his manner: 

"Look at Silverton " 

And I did look at Silverton playing 
tag in the water with Undine, whose 
tail must have fairly loosened at 
the joints with joy. 

Silverton was good to look at, 
six feet two; he was equally good 
to be with. He is dead now, poor 
chap, so I can say all the nice things 
about him that occur to me. Lou 
Silverton was the mountain type in 
its highest expression, a big man 



morally as well as physically, her- 
culean strength at anybody's ser- 
vice (I have seen him break a big 
pebble in his hands) , his never-failing 
good humour, his homely philosophy 
and woodcraft lore made him the 
man of all others to go camping with. 
It was largely his courage and en- 
durance that had made it possible 
to bring Monarch the biggest grizzly 
ever captured alive, to the Zoo at 
Golden Gate. 

Whether my derision had urged 
him on, or whether his own remarks 
were a precursor to his present 
plan, I know not, but Nimrod disap- 
peared behind some bushes and soon 
was splashing right merrily. How 
I envied them. My prim inheritance 
forbade that a towel should serve as 
a bathing garment. To my undoing, 
memory now presented a picture 
printed there only the day before 
when on the march; a jolly cascade 
of purest mountain vintage had 
scooped out in its eager course a 
granite slab, great boulders were 
piled about it. Here was a bath-tub 
smooth, unscarred by crack or peb- 
ble, a bath-tub for Susanne to envy. 



It was not more than three miles. 
Surely I could find it. Leaving 
these brazen men with their brazen 
dog to take their shameless bath, 
wrapped in a cloak of modesty and 
sweet anticipations, I jumped upon 
the ever-ready horse, and trying to 
pretend that I was accustomed to 
going through these great solemn 
woods alone I started for the reality 
of that ablutionary picture. When 
at last it was found, the sun had al- 
ready begun to pull down his shades, 
the pool, perhaps eight feet across 
and waist deep, looked black and 
cold — ^brrrrh! very cold. No, de- 
cidedly, Susanne would never have 
risked her satin flesh. As I hesitated 
the pines above sighed loudly: 

" We love the pool so deep and cool, 
It is our child. 
Step boldly in, dare all to win, 
'Twill then be mild." 

After that, the only polite thing 
to do was to become acquainted 
in the manner outlined. Unfortun- 
ately, wet rock is often like good 
intentions, most slippery. Not un- 
aware of this I selected the least 




A BATH TUB FOR SUZANNE TO ENVY 



sloping approach; a chilly wind 
swept by and through my Eve's 
costume most unpleasantly, when 
bump, bang-splash! I had slid full 
length, face downward into the 
water. 

O mournful deceivers above — are 
you the unwilling servants of the 
monster my affrighted eyes now 
gazed upon? Life may hold worse 
moments, I pray not. What fiend 
had dashed me into that icy water 
to disturb, in frantic struggles for the 
life-giving air, the owner of this pool 
— a water-snake with darting tongue 
in a flattened head. It was not 
courage but sheer fright that tight- 
ened my hold on the rock rim near 
his writhing tail. There seemed yards 
of the squirming horror; in fact it 
filled the universe. It seemed to be 
enveloping me in swirling waves, as 
the dragon of the pool gradually 
glided under the rock. Then sud- 
denly again the pines sang: 

" dare all to win. " 



I let go and managed to scramble 
out of the water, a frozen rag. 
It had been such a delightful bath! 



24 



Fortunately Nimrod had hunted 
me up and my courage being as 
absent as the chill was present, soon 
supplied some of the Dutch variety — 
such siren pines, yet do I love you. 

Having revived the perishing, 
Nimrod, afterthe manner of husbands, 
proceeded to investigate. How long 
was the snake, how marked, what 
shaped head? 

"Humph! Pituophis catenifer, a 
harmless Bull-snake! Doubtless more 
scared than you." -Could you have 
forgiven him? Later Silverton's phil- 
osophy smoothed my ruffled feelings. 

' ' Why do you suppose I am such a 
coward ? Surely you have never been 
afraid in your life, have you?" 

"Yes," a courteous lie, "but being 
afraid does not mean a coward. 
That's imagination. You see, I 
haven't much. It's what one does 
that counts. A fellar's feelings are 
his own job. I'll bet you've got 
more of the real article than I have. 
You get in a tight place, you hate it, 
but get out. Now I get in a tight 
place — I just get out — no frills — no 
credit." 

He took off his sombrero, a huge 



25 



affair with a plain leather band on the 
crown, and held it beside mine. It 
was like his but much smaller and the 
wide leather band was beautifully 
carved, a Mexican silver buckle 
held it. 

' ' That's the difference— frills. It's 
just as useful." 

We had been out in the Sierra 
for two weeks. There was one more 
of us, the cook. There ought to have 
been three more of us, for Sally and 
her husband were coming, but one of 
the children got the measles. Unless 
some other germs triumph, they will 
join us next month in Idaho. Sally's 
real name is Gulielma. She could 
not help it. There has always been 
one in the family. Her grandmother's 
name was Gulielma Mary Ann Sprig- 
ett Penn Wells Dean, so she got off 
with G. D. Rockingham, and now 
she is — you know — Tevis. So Bobby 
Tevis calls her "Pet," or "Petty," 
and I call her Sally. She does not 
care. She is hardened, she even 
looks with sweet unflinching eyes 
when her old-fashioned mother, going 
back to first principles, says, "Gu-li- 
el-ma!" 





I have never camped with a wo- 
man, but Bobbie Tevis has felt the 
call of the Red Gods and Sally has 
to come. She is very wise in the 
matter of husband keeping, is Sally. 
I have never seen her equal. Bobbie 
does everything for her, and adores 
her, and is not happy unless she is 
enjoying with him the same thing at 
the same moment. She has practi- 
cally made herself over, perhaps a 
trifle strenuous for most, but it is 
beautiful to behold. 

As for the cook, he was just an 
Ordinary Man who owned four horses 
and a wagon and some saddle horses, 
lived in Goldville, the place we 
wanted to start from — and could 
bake bread. 

But to begin at the beginning : 
We left Sacramento, a light hearted 
trio, on the "mixed." At last we 
were started after much buying of 
provisions and camp necessaries. 
Perhaps you have never made the ac- 
quaintance of a ' 'mixed " ? This one 
had a moribund day coach very much 
frayed and moth-eaten in the matter 
of velvet seats, and very feeble in 
the springs ; we seemed to be riding 





chiefly on the trucks. Being the one 
daily train we had a caboose behind, 
and the rest of us was freight. With 
frequent stops for breath or water, 
the engine puffed, puffed up hill at 
least ten miles an hour. But no 
matter, for the iron horse toiled 
through a vast orchard and when it 
gave a long wheezing hiss and put on 
brakes to rest, merrily Silverton 
jumped off and foraged for the ripest 
figs and Nimrod for the rosiest 
peaches, until gorged with the best 
of California's cornucopia, we were 
glad to leave the fruit belt, puffing, 
blowing and bumping our way to- 
ward the Sierra, calm "sentinels of 
the sky." Once among them the 
engine banked its fires and expired. 
We were at the terminal, Goldville. 

Nowhere is the air so clear, the sun 
so grateful, as in the mountains, but 
likewise never do the clouds seem 
so black nor human passions, stripped 
of some of their civilised trappings, 
show themselves more flagrantly. 
I am thinking of what happened 
during the two hours spent at Gold- 
ville. Nimrod and Silverton were 
busy with the Ordinary Man getting 







28 



ready for the start that very after- 
noon into the mountains — we were 
to have no more roofs for a glorious 
while. 

Being unoccupied, I drifted down 
the main street and into a little park 
surrounding the Court House. Sev- 
eral children and dogs were playing; 
on the benches were a few loafers 
and some women from the country 
with baskets — a long line beyond of 
dusty vehicles with horses hitched 
testified that it was market day. 
Selecting a vacant and shaded bench 
I sat thereon and extracting a tiny 
volume of verse from the crown of 
my hat began to read — I have no 
idea how long. 

Fair lilies, roses red. 




That once above my head 
Waved in a wealth of soft caressing splen- 
dour " 

"Miss, did you ever see a dead 
man?" Shot into my ear like an 
arrow. Someone had whispered it 
sibilantly. My slow astonished gaze, 
thus torn from the contemplation of 
youth, love and beauty, saw beside 
me a small woman in shabby black, 



her eyes straight ahead, looking at 
something within, her hands clasped 
tightly in her lap. How had she 
got there? 

"He's dead. I never saw one. 
He's there now." 

She shot a sidelong glance at me. 

"Where?" 

"Over there," giving her right 
shoulder a hitch in the direction of 
Main Street. 

"Wouldn't you like to see him?" 
She questioned in the same sup- 
pressed tone. Most assuredly I would 
not, but before I could say so she 
went on. 

"They took him there this morn- 
ing. He shot hisself yesterday. He 
lived next ranch — and I — want to 
see him. I can't go alone. Been 

trying to . Now will you come ? ' * 

She had risen and for a moment an 
eager look chased away the strained 
one. 

"Why did he " She inter- 
rupted me. 

"He's a widower. She's gone 
about a year. His step-daughter 
kept house for him, and folks say — 
well she's come to no good end, and 



he's shot hisself because folks said — 
but he and I — we — Ain't you com- 
in' ? The old Man '11 be startin' back 
soon." She glanced at the long line 
of market wagons beyond the square. 

"CominT' 

"Very well." 

I had much to do to keep pace 
with her. Once having gotten me, 
her moral force, started, she trav- 
elled swiftly out of the park, down 
Main Street, turned at the third 
block and halted abruptly in front 
of "there," which proved to be an 
* * Undertaking Parlour. ' ' 

"I dare n't — see him." It was a 
plea for reinforcement. 

"Come!" 

Once inside, she spoke to a man 
who appeared from the rear in his 
shirtsleeves. 

" I — ^we want to see him.'' 

This speech appeared sufficiently 
normal to the gentleman of the 
undertaking. 

"Come right back here," he said 
in a cheerful business-like tone" the 
coffin is most done, we're just engrav- 
ing the plate. He spelt his name 
with two I's, I presume?" 





The woman nodded. I essayed to 
wait for her, a grip on my sleeve 
showed that she still needed the 
human touch of sympathy. To- 
gether we followed to the workshop 
where loudly a hammer proclaimed 
a wooden case being put together, and 
somewhat apart, on a rough bier, 
under a sheet, lay the figure of ' ' him " 
who had not "made good, " as Silver- 
ton would put it. In a little house 
ten miles away a girl was cursing 
him, and the neighbours were help- 
ing. Here in the crude noisy shop 
was his one mourner — the other 
woman. 

Dry-eyed she looked at him, bullet 
mark and all, looked long and looked 
again, then the vision held before her 
she sought the street and turned 
toward the market place and the 
"old Man." 

She dropped me as one drops a 
shoe, she neither knew nor cared; 
and I scuttled back to Nimrod and 
pleasant things. 

We slept that night on a straw- 
stack in the Ordinary Man's ranch, 
a few miles out of Goldville. Of 
course, being an Ordinary Man he 




had forgotten something important, 
so we could get no farther. The 
overdome was violet black that night 
with a delicate all-over embroidery 
of silver. For a long time I lay looking 
at it, the straw slowly settling under 
my weight, making a cosy nest, 
amply protected from the crisp night 
air. I was floating in the sweet 
upper silence when a something set 
it all athrill, a long drawn melodious 
quavering weooooooo — followed by a 
few short, sharp shocks of sound, and 
then a chorus of rolling quavers, 
swelling and fading — wwwooooo 
woooowoo. 

It did not really wake me. I 
knew it so well — the evening song 
of the coyotes. They were singing 
the song of the hills, and feeling that 
now indeed was I truly in the open, 
my lodging at "The Inn of the 
Silver Moon" lost reality and the 
silver wrought bowl slipped farther 
and farther away. 






II. 



REAL DANGERS OF THE OPEN VERSUS 
POPULAR NOTION — UNDINE'S STORY 

S already said, Undine 
had vagrantly answered 
to the will of many, and 
permanently to her own. 
During her nomadic ca- 
reer she had picked up 
several trades, such as cattle- and 
sheep-keeping, and at least three ac- 
complishments, swimming, barking 
like a wolf, and deer-running, the 
last often much appreciated by the 
bacon-fed herder with whom she had 
consented awhile to tarry, taking his 
orders, doing his work and sharing 
his food and fire. Undine hated salt 




pork and "camp sinkers," so if possi- 
ble she provided her own susten- 
ance — any unlucky field mouse or 
chipmunk not agile enough to escape 
her spring. 

Sheep had always been associated 
in my mind with great green stretches 
of rolling park land whereon a 
handful of these well-kept woolly 
things fed picturesquely, yielding at 
uncertain times and in obscure ways, 
white fleece; so I had small sym- 
pathy with the prejudice in the West, 
encountered universally, against 
' ' sheepmen. ' ' Why class them among 
the despised? And the herders as 
creatures beyond the pale — outcasts ? 
— Why? We must have food, and 
mutton is most delectable. 

We had been travelling about a 
week, each day gliding by as event- 
less and delightful as another until 
I had come to the comfortable be- 
lief that in well-regulated "outfits" 
nothing did happen; when the ac- 
cumulated bolts of Jove struck 
among us right busily. On a cer- 
tain well-remembered day we began 
to pass through some very extraor- 
dinary country, unclean, desolate. 



The dust was incredible. It covered 
us like the shower from a volcano. 
Nimrod was transformed into a dis- 
gusted looking Santa Claus, hair, 
mustache, eyebrows, even eyelashes 
had disappeared under a reddish 
coating. Over the road (the Sierra 
are much more man-claimed than 
the Rockies, one finds roads instead 
of trails) it hung like a blanket ten 
feet high of ever changing particles; 
the horses ploughed through it eight 
inches thick or more, blinding, chok- 
ing, intolerable. It was the dry season, 
but we had seen nothing like this. 

''Why is it?" I questioned and 
the Ordinary Man answered — 

"Sheep." 

Silverton elaborated — "It's a pity 
they've got hold of so much of these 
mountains. But suppose they've 
got to go somewhere. Gov'ment 
ought to regulate 'em, so many to 
the square mile, and not let them 
wipe out th' hull country. Isn't 
a green thing left when they get 
through. Worse'n a plague o' lo- 
custs. We 're gettin' close to some 
now." 

I wondered how he knew, but I 




had given up trying to fathom Sil- 
verton's woodcraft, perhaps he saw 
tracks or the breeze brought tidings. 

Yes, there was something pe- 
culiar on the wind, very peculiar 
and very unpleasant. Was it burn- 
ing rubber.? No, much worse. It 
was growing stronger and stronger, 
and the dust ! Every one of the mil- 
lion particles bore its unspeak- 
ably malodorous freight. Oh! for 
the power that cleaned the Augean 
stables! The Ordinary Man whipped 
up his horses. I was seated at the 
time on a big roll of bedding at the 
back of the wagon, leading my 
horse by the bridle. The four horses 
shot forward and I had the choice of 
loosening the hold on my horse or 
myself. A lost horse seemed prefer- 
able to a lost equilibrium and that 
overpowering dust and smell made 
me indifferent. 

Nimrod caught the horse but I 
declined to be burdened with it. 
I longed for a fragrant terrace far 
away where clematis, and oleanders 
and day-lilies scented the clear air. 

"Pretty nearly out," he encour- 
aged. 




"'> 



"Out of what?" I snapped gently. 
"Sheep." I think his expression 
would have showed surprise if it 
could have penetrated the layer of 
dirt on his visage. "They are some 
distance off on the right, must be 
several thousands!" 

I had not seen a thing. But now 
I heard voices, muffled sounds and 
bleats. So this particular brand of 
smell and this deluge of dust meant 
"sheep." We were on the necessary 
thoroughfare for these poor beasts to 
reach higher pasture lands. They 
were making a forced march in order 
to get food, for this region had al- 
ready been devastated by their pre- 
decessors. The streams were defiled, 
the vegetation gone, nothing but dust 
and ruin. 

Just then, a darting ball of red 
shot into the road, turned toward us 
one end from which two gleaming 
eyes shone, the other end was stiff 
for an instant and then waggled. 

"Oh, you poor little doggie, what 
a sight you are! " It gave two short 
barks and several hard waggles and 
was off. ' ' That is the sheep herders' 
mainstay," said Silverton, "the dog 



38 



does most of the work. The herd- 
ers are a ornery lot, mostly Mexican 
trash, no decent man would take 
such a job." 

So now I understood the preju- 
dice. At best a herder's life repre- 
sents long weeks alone, his only and 
constant company sheep, sheep, silly, 
smelly sheep. At last we left them 
behind and the air became humanly 
possible again. Being still in sheep 
country we were obliged to make 
camp where we could find water fit 
to drink. 

A little spring in the enclosure of 
a deserted ranch (owner driven out 
by the sheep) had escaped pollution. 
It was sweet by its means to recover 
a normal appearance, and the little 
emerald patch was as welcome to us 
as the oasis to a desert traveller. 

The Ordinary Man was preparing 
supper when a small red object 
crawled, rather than walked, toward 
us from the road. It lifted its nose 
from the ground and evidently seeing 
the object of its tracking, stretched 
out on the grass, a very tired dog. 

After a time the eyes opened and 
looked at me. 



"You are surely the sheep-herders' 
dog." The animal gave itself a 
shake as much as to disclaim any- 
such connection, and with a bark of 
joy perceived the spring and jumped 
in. It was gone a long time. Had 
I been mistaken, was it a suicide.? 
when up came a creature in black 
coat, shining and curly, emitting 
little yelps of pleasure as it paddled 
about. Then vigorously drying her- 
self Undine went to the fire and sug- 
gested that food would be most 
appreciated. 

She ate starvedly and then fell to 
licking a long cut on the body. Per- 
haps it was resentment of this that 
had made Undine change her allegi- 
ance, for change it she had, as sub- 
sequent events proved. 

I have often been struck by the 
flimsiness of the threads from which 
that curious fabric "popular notion" 
is woven. I have never been able 
to examine it closely without it 
falling to pieces in my hands. Per- 
haps it is a thankless task to destroy 
it: it is the way half of the world wins 
its living from the other half. But 
I am tempted to poke holes in a tiny 




section of it which maligns the Wild 
Ones. A word should be said for 
them. I have camped in a region 
where bears prowled unceasingly, 
where the smaller fourfoots, wolves, 
foxes, lynxes, knew very well of my 
presence. A mountain lion once 
walked half way around my bed as 
I lay peacefully sleeping, his nose not 
a hand's breadth from mine, as the 
great padded tracks next morning 
amply testified. I had much time 
to study them, as the very smell of 
their owner had stampeded the 
horses miles away. Hundreds of 
antelope, deer, wapiti, caribou I 
have seen and have never been in 
danger from them unless they were 
being molested and therefore on 
the defensive. In short the wild 
animals are no longer a menace to 
peaceful man. 

The real dangers of the wilds that 
have seriously threatened my life 
were a common bull, and a little 
creature no bigger than a thumb- 
nail — a yellow- jacket wasp! 

Rarely if ever does a dangerous 
wild animal in the woods "hit first," 
and having said this for the wild 




ones, I may add that in spite 
of these fine words, still shackled 
by remnants of tradition, I am 
always expecting them to, and 
thereby prove myself a creature not 
wholly open to reason. 

However, if something must in- 
spect camp at night, I would far 
rather take chances on lion or bear, 
for at least they have a care where 
their feet are going, but a bull would 
as soon trample on one as on the 
grass alongside. He cares not a jot. 
A horse will carefully step over a 
human form but a bull has not a 
shred of noblesse oblige. He is a 
blatant, stupid, brutal bully. 

As for yellow jackets, there is 
no creature more dreaded in horse 
country. Many a poor pack-horse 
on the trail has missed his footing 
and gone to his death because of 
them. I remember a certain "Lost 
Horse Cafion," the entrance of which 
they guarded, and where our faith- 
ful Midnight, in pain and fright, 
bucked himself off the trail, plunging 
nearly a thousand feet to the torrent 
below, a horrible performance which 
my horse came perilously near 




42 



repeating. We were only saved by 
my being able to grasp an overhang- 
ing branch, and thus relieved of 
his burden the horse scrambled up on 
to the trail not a second too soon. 
Possibly the Creator had for long 
been making children, cubs, puppies 
and other young things then; of a 
sudden fearing that the world might 
become too sweet a place, balanced 
by fashioning the wasp — all venom, 
sting and temper. 

(This is really the story of Undine, 
but the propeller blade has to be in 
the air some of the time, you know.) 

After supper the long twilight still 
lingered. Nimrod, who had been 
sweeping the foothills with glasses, 
gave utterance to this cryptic re- 
mark: 

"I think I see a milk wagon! 
Fresh milk for breakfast, a good 
idea! Come Silverton, Cook, bring 
a pail," and the three rode away 
toward a small "bunch" of range 
cattle that had come into view on 
the edge of the sheep-ruined country. 

Undine and I were getting ac- 
quainted. She was not a lap dog, 
had evidently no conception of the 



part, but lay nose between paws 
watching me as I sang, perhaps liking 
the sound that the Poet had made 
when he strung the words together — 

'Swiftly walk over the western wave, 

Spirit of night ! 
Out of the misty eastern cave 
Where, all the long and lone daylight, 
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear 
Which make thee terrible and dear, — 

Swiftbe thy flight! ..." 

The little dog raised her nose and 
sniffed tentatively, then arose in an 
attitude of attention. A horseman 
was galloping towards us. Undine 
sniffed again, gave a low growl, and 
crawled out of sight under a pile 
of canvas. A dirty swarthy little 
man drew rein, almost pulled the 
poor creature to its haunches. 
Flecked with foam, it stood trem- 
bling, breathing heavily. 

"The Mexican sheep-herder of 
course," I thought, "cruel to every- 
thing, beware of little black men, 
all devil — soul like a pin-point," 
where had I heard that! 

"Giv'-a the dog," he demanded, 
scowling down at me. Something 
inside got^ uncomfortably large and 




thumped. I said nothing. Flinging 
himself to the ground, he pointed to 
Undine's track. 

"He's here — sacre! You can no' 
keep!" He approached threatening, 
his face evil as boiling pitch. The 
deserted aspect of the place now 
penetrated to his consciousness. His 
darting black eyes searched about 
cunningly, but he failed to see a 
black nose and two shining beads, 
noting his every movement. 

"Ah; mia bella!" 

I retreated. He advanced, one 
hand outstretched. It was the sig- 
nal for Undine to launch herself 
upon him. 

"Santa Maria sacre" 

A torrent of "hog" Spanish fol- 
lowed. The little dog snarled and 
growled at the approaching man. 
He kept her off by kicking as he 
edged toward a big stick, murder 
written on every line of him — poor 
little Undine! Running as fast as 
the ground would allow, for it seemed 
to jump up and down, I got to the 
bed, some distance off, and grabbed 
a gun. How it stuck in the scabbard ! 
At last the hateful thing was out. 




HE APPROACHED THREATENING, HIS FACE EVIL 
AS BOILING PITCH 



I was much afraid it would ex- 
plode, in my haste; holding it in 
the Mexican's direction, but care- 
fully into the ground, I commanded 
him to let the dog alone, get on his 
horse and begone. 

This he did, cursing all sorts of 
things in his jargon, but without 
wasting any time, the coward! Pos- 
sibly he knew as well as I, that a 
gun in the hands of a nervous 
woman is very dangerous, indeed. 

When the men returned they found 
Undine nursing bruises, and I nursing 
the gun. As no harm had been done, 
it seemed best not to pursue the man, 
although Silverton stayed on guard 
that night in case he should return. 
Thus again Undine proved her right 
to be one of us, for if Silverton had 
not been watching — ^but then, he 
was. 

Soon after the milkers' return I 
noticed Nimrod at the spring care- 
fully washing the pails that they had 
brought back empty. I never have 
gotten the accurate details of that 
expedition, but I believe that when 
they reached the herd, Nimrod made 
a bleat like a calf. Several cows 



looked up and ran about anxiously, 
showing they had calves. Silverton 
lassoed one of these and with the 
Ordinary Man's help held her, while 
Nimrod did the very precarious 
milking. He was watching the cow's 
feet instead of the pail, so had milked 
a quart or more before he noticed 
that the milk was streaked with 
blood. In sudden disgust he threw 
it out, plentifully splashing his horse's 
feet. No one now had any desire 
for milk, so they rode to camp. 

Thus unthinkingly Nimrod set the 
lure for a midnight visitor. In the 
darkness the herd had grazed nearer 
and nearer. Suddenly we all heard 
the bellow of a bull — urrrh — urrrh — 
urrrh — at the spring. The men 
chased him away, and thinking no 
more about it I went to bed. Soon 
Nimrod was wriggling into his 
blankets nearby. How delightfully 
easeful that resting on air. But not 
yet on that eventful night was sleep 
to woo, and win. 

That old bull had not been satis- 
fied. He had smelled tainted milk 
at the spring and again was investi- 
gating in wrathful mood — rrrhh — 




49 



— rrh — stamping and snorting about, 
crazier got his actions, he was work- 
ing himself into a frenzy. Silverton 
tried to drive him off. Instead, the 
snorting, stamping brute started our 
way. Silverton got out his pistol but 
dared not use it in the darkness so 
near us. I tried to jump up. 

"Stay where you are, it's your 
only chance, he may miss us!" 
Commanded Nimrod. 

It was awful, that waiting, 
expecting every moment to be 
trampled on — when suddenly an 
unlooked for champion dashed to the 
rescue — yap, yap, yip ! It was Undine, 
a D avid for Goliath . Now her versatile 
training showed forth. She knew 
just what to do, nipping at flank and 
leg and darting out of reach, she 
turned the snorting, pawing Jugger- 
naut and drove it far away. 

After a time the doggie and 
Silverton and the pistol came back; 
but — ^the bull never did. 

The beauty of the night had re- 
mained unquestioned and now its 
peace came back. I drowsed but 
did not sleep. 

We were nearing the home of the 




5° 



Big Trees and already they towered 
triumphantly to the sky. 

How would it feel to be swinging, 
on the tippy top of that giant red- 
wood? See-saw — I gave myself up 
to the soothing fancy — now I was 
swinging in it, as gently as a babe in 
its cradle, swish, swish — ^when a 
faint, very faint movement beneath 
brought me to earth with a jar and 
stiffened every muscle to wakeful- 
ness. Something was under the 
heavy canvas on which rested the 
rubber bed. Nervous, of course I 
was after all the day's excitement. 

No, there it was again. Had I 
remembered to put my horse-hair 
rope around the bed, the magic rope 
that is supposed to keep the rattle- 
snakes away ? Had I ? Now I remem- 
ber it was in place! Perhaps I was 
to have the opportunity of testing it. 
No one not even the oldest inhabitant, 
attempts to deny the numerous 
rattlesnakes in the Sierra. Ah! that 
sneaking insinuating motion, very 
gentle, I could hardly feel, or hear, 
or whatever sense it was that con- 
veyed the intelligence — ^but unmis- 
takable. It had gotten under there 




somehow and was trying to get out. 
Did that horse-hair quite meet, or 
had I arranged it carelessly? I pic- 
tured the rattler going all around 
me trying at every undulation to 
pass the rope whose stiff bristles 
repelled its sensitive throat, per- 
haps it had found the opening and 
was gliding in! Perhaps it preferred 
hair ropes to any other road. 

"Nimrod" said a small thin voice, 
"have you got the electric lamp 
within reach? There is a — " I did 
not say it, * * — something under my 
bed. There, did n't you hear it?" 

This time the noise was much 
louder. 

"Squ-eee-eek." 

"It's a field mouse getting jolly 
well squashed. Now he is gone," 
said the masculine voice with in- 
finite patience and resumed his inter- 
rupted slumbers. A flash of the 
electric lamp showed Undine curled 
up comfortably near on a saddle 
blanket. She opened one eye and 
cocked an ear, politely enquiring, 
"Why don't you do the same?" So 
I did. 








PART II. 
IN THE ROCKIES 




THE GRAND CANON AND WHAT IT DID 
TO NIMROD 




IMROD and I were mak- 
ing one of those conti- 
nent-jumping trips over 
which the foreigner 
still is aghast. We ex- 
pected to join Sally and 
Bobbie Tevis in Idaho at the end of 
the week. The night before we had 
left Los Angeles with the thermom- 
eter over the hundred-in-the-shade 
mark, and as I made a restricted 
night toilet in a lower berth and 
closed tired eyes, there passed be- 
fore memory's eye the sparkling 
light, the twinkling sand, the hot 



blue sky, the air now soft, now fierce, 
but always caressing, and everywhere 
bright flowers on fence and tree and 
house, a riot of brilliant blooms — 
especially that mass of scarlet gerani- 
ums at the station blazing its name 
in welcome or goodbye to all who 
passed. In the berth above, I could 
hear the turnings and squirmings 
of Nimrod, who was performing his 
sleeping car penance. 

"Look out, they 're coming!" 
It was a gentle whisper from above. 

"What is it? Oh"— and my 
sleepy gaze fastened on a ghostly 
hand descending within the line of 
vision. It held a black object which 
fell to the floor with a thud; an- 
other followed. The porter would 
know what to do with them. 

I suppose we really walked in the 
trail of good luck when we visited 
the Grand Canon, for we saw in 
its most curious phase, that mightiest 
gash of a mighty river in its immen- 
sity and beauty, suddenly roll wonder 
on wonder before us , as though the 
whole world were striving then and 
there to empty its coffers in one 
glorious offering at the feet of God! 



but we knew not what was reserved 
for us and when we passed from 
the warm Pullman sleeping car on to 
the platform of Flagstaff we shivered 
and repined. 

Although it was nearly June, Na- 
ture in her vagaries had flung a snow 
storm around San Francisco peak and 
we in summer clothes with only hand 
baggage thought regretfully of the 
trunks and warm clothing that were 
speeding onward to Pine Cone Lodge. 

Between eye-shutting and eye- 
opening to be plunged from warmth, 
light, flowers, all out-doors in joyous 
mood, to the sleet and snow and the 
wind that was almost a blizzard, and 
cold against which our covering 
seemed no protection, required a 
plentiful application of traveller's 
philosophy. The street in front of 
us was running rivers of slush. 
Nimrod was the first to recover. 
He broke the silence that had hung 
over us, leaden as the clouds above. 

"Well, let's get into this 'one-hoss 
shay' and see if it can float us to 
the hotel — Driver, what's the best 
hotel? The Palace?' " We looked 
at each other with grim humour. 




If it could only have been Smith's 
or Brown's or Jones's there might 
have been some chance of decent 
accommodation, but the "Palaces" 
and the "Royals" — well, we knew 
them. 

I resisted a woman's inclination 
to cower and straightened to meet 
the cutting blast that swept around 
the station comer as though Boreas 
himself was in charge. 

"Yes, there it is," Nimrod said 
in a resigned voice as we looked 
through the w^indow of an antique 
omnibus upholstered in red-and- 
green Brussels carpet, and read a 
legend "The Palace Hotel" in brazen 
black letters on the false third-story 
front of a frame tw^o-story clap- 
board structure that ran back on 
its narrow site like a train of cars. 
We knew already that the ground 
floor windows gave light to an 
"office" where was the clerk's desk 
and billboard, and w^hich served for 
the lounging room. Wooden arm 
chairs, their backs reinforced by iron 
rods, to accommodate the habit of 
continual tilting by their occupants, 
were placed against the wall and 





hyphenated periodically by brown 
earthen dishes which combined in 
their big round shapes the opposing 
emblems of cleanliness and filth. 
The long, broad table supplied with 
inkwells and cheap stationery and 
the local papers, all rather untidy, 
would be sure to occupy some por- 
tion of the office space, and the 
"bar," separated only by abbre- 
viated swinging doors, would give 
forth its individual odours and its 
voices; also we knew that beyond 
the office was the dining room with 
its long tables always set with the 
"usuals," including toothpicks, and 
the kitchen, not by any means 
hiding its essential part in the hotel 
economics; while above stairs the 
long, narrow corridor would be bro- 
ken by doors that gave the entrance 
to cell-like rooms, each small, square 
and stuffy, lighted by one window 
and furnished with ingrain carpet, 
a pine bedroom set, and the noises 
of one's neighbours. 

We arrived and dashed through the 
torrent. How depressing it all was 
in its sordid usefulness! no extreme 
for good or ill that might lift it to 




6o 



the picturesque. It was an ex- 
pression of the crudity of man when 
he has broken away from the primi- 
tive and is trying to make a big 
showing in a cheap way, and often 
does he do this in the very lap of 
Nature's grandest achievements such 
as here where she has with indiffer- 
ence taken centuries of time and em- 
ployed all the mighty agents at her 
command, the sun, the air, the water 
and the earth, all the elements to 
make a home for one of her vassals, 
the Colorado, and to paint it in all 
the colours that could beautify. 
Then does man erect a structure of 
his on its surface, as a fleck of soot 
mars the face of a beautiful woman, 
putting up a false front, painting 
its pine boards to look like brick, 
and its pine furniture to look like 
mahogany, papering its walls to 
look like marble, curtains that imi- 
tate lace, a melodeon that imitates 
a piano, tissue paper that is cut and 
twisted into shameless shapes of 
flowers in an imitation Worcester 
vase — nothing honest but the fly- 
paper and the spittoon. 

It is necessary perhaps, this civil- 



6i 




isation in its first tottering steps, 
but how different are the homes 
of those who live with nature, of 
the Indian, the frontiersman and 
the scout — of the Hfe in the open 
that for another month I was going 
to lead. The blood jumped through 
my veins at the thought. No mat- 
ter if the wind does blow, no matter 
if the street is a foot thick in slimy 
mud and the sleet beating down 
mercilessly; it is simply nature in a 
wild mood — I have seen her in 
worse. It seems trying to one ac- 
customed to the pampering com- 
forts of man's ingenuity, but soon 
I shall throw off that yoke and walk 
as a little sister with this big brother, 
earth. 

We had given ourselves very little 
time to visit the Cafion and when 
we were informed that the stage 
would not run to the Canon that day, 
the prospect of spending a third of 
the precious time in the Palace 
Hotel at Flagstaff met with scant 
favour. 

"It is cold as liquid air, none of 
these dainty sons of the soil want to 
take their horses out," said Nimrod 



as he stood at the window in the 
office looking disconsolately at the 
storm. The street was running rivers 
of mud lashed by the wind, the down- 
pour swept past in undulating waves 
of sleety wetness. 

"Of course, we must get to the 
Canon to-night," I made answer. 

"There are seventy miles of it. 
Can you do it?" 

He needed no assurance. 

"I will skirmish for a private 
conveyance. Can you be ready in 
an hour if my gold proves convinc- 
ing?" 

' ' Easily. Do you suppose we can 
borrow an umbrella? I saw a 'Dry 
Goods Emporium' down the street 
as we came up from the station and 
hope it will yield us some sweaters 
and warm things. ' ' I felt as bloodless 
as a sheet of paper. 

An hour later we dashed out of 
town behind four half -broken mus- 
tangs whose principal endeavour 
seemed to be to stay off the ground 
as much as possible. The two-seated 
mountain carry-all swung from side 
to side, sending the mud in showers 
around it and upon the tarpaulin 




curtains that partially protected us. 
We were on the back seat and I 
wondered if we really could stay 
right side up. 

"Driver what is the matter with 
the horses?" burst from me. "Oh, 
look at that leader! Heavens, we'll 
be in the ditch!" Nimrod reached 
out a steadying hand under the robe 
as he grasped the guard rail with the 
other hand. "Should say he was 
practising the hornpipe on one leg, 
but the driver seems to understand 
them." 

The driver having now extricated 
his leader from the ditch and con- 
fined the cavorting of the wheelers 
to the middle of the road answered: 

"Oh, they are all right, ma'am. 
They're a bit fresh, that's all. 
They'll go a nice pace after they 
have worked off five mile or so. Ye 
see they ain't no great pals with 
their leather yet." I gave myself 
a dose of "don't care" philosophy, 
having acquired this trick on pre- 
vious occasions — "Yes, this is bad, 
awful, in fact, or so it seems to you, 
but it has happened before to others 
and will happen again. Are you 




a craven soul? What is your fear, 
that you may get hurt? The real 
part of you cannot be hurt by any- 
thing physical, and if you are going 
to be hurt — well, you will be, fear 
will not help you. 'Cowards die 
many times before their deaths' — 
Ugh! away with it" — and began 
to feel better. 

"Tra la la, tra la la, dear boy, 
we are really getting to the Canon, 
'the mighty channel that the mighty 
Colorado has worn through the ages, 
etc., etc' Brrh! Isn't it cold? Fancy 
June behaving like this. San Fran- 
cisco Peak is covered with snow. 
I just caught a glimpse when the 
clouds lifted a little. Driver, don't 
you think the storm is nearly over?" 

The man thus addressed shifted 
his quid from one cheek to the other 
and emptied his mouth of sufficient 
fluid to make speech comfortable. 

"It's nigh on three days, I reckon, 
a change's about due. The folks 
at the Canon been held up since 
Monday. May be they won't ob- 
ject to seein' the mail bag." 

The horses for the past fifteen 
miles had been going a steady gait 



and now showed signs of increased 
activity, which I interpreted as mean- 
ing the nearness of the relay station. 
Although in a private conveyance 
we carried the mail bag and were 
using the post route horses. We 
drew up with a flourish in front of 
the one-story log "shack," divided 
equally into quarters for the men 
and the horses. No one was visible, 
but immediately there were sounds 
of "Whoa, you devil, whoa there, 
save your hide" — and a man ap- 
peared with two dancing animals 
partially harnessed. They repre- 
sented many bloods, but principally 
"cayuse." Regardless of the evi- 
dent equine remonstrance the men 
without further ado tied each to a 
hitching post well-separated and has- 
tened to help the driver and a third 
man disentangle the four whose 
twenty-odd miles of hard work had 
not seriously impaired their vicious- 
ness. I waited until peace reigned 
in the vicinity of the carry-all and 
then climbing over the front ^ seat 
in order not to disturb the side- 
curtains so securely fastened, pre- 
pared to descend. We were only 





stopping long enough to change 
horses. Nimrod was already on the 
ground. 

"Oh, how glorious it is already," 
I cried, "the rain has almost gone 
and we shall soon be able to see about 
us, after all. Driver, where are the 
fresh leaders — ^what's your name, 
please?" 

The driver, a short thick-set man 
with a thin, rather finely cut face 
and drooping moustache, stopped 
in his task of changing certain 
harness from the incoming to the 
outgoing wheelers and brought out 
his remarks in an accustomed 
slow speech. 

"My handle is Sommers, ma'am. 
They'll be out in a minute. Ye hit 
it plumb right. They're fresh, an' 
we'll all be ready to move when they 
are introduced . Now ma ' am , if 3^ou ' 11 
step in" — gallantly offering to help 
me into the carry-all. 

"But the horses aren't attached 
yet," I demurred. "No ma'am," 
said Sommers politely, with the air of 
having already explained, "ye see 
they prefer to move and it's healthier 
to be ready to go with them." 



Nimrod and I got into the back 
seat and awaited developments, 
which were immediately forthcom- 
ing. The four men got the wheelers 
into position and the reins passed 
over the dashboard and secured. 
It was a lively skirmish, but soon 
over. A man remained at the head 
of each wheeler and the other two 
disappeared into the stable and 
after much commotion, men and 
horses burst into the open. I saw 
two mouse-coloured animals with 
long ears laid back viciously and the 
short-haired tail that suggested mule 
and the stamping feet and roll- 
ing eye of wicked horse. The 
kicking and the bucking, the plung- 
ing and rearing of these mountain 
products, was only equalled by the 
calm, irresistible determination of the 
men to bend brute will to theirs. 
At first the issue seemed doubtful, 
then it became apparent that slowly, 
with many a circling and bucking, 
the "jacks" were being forced in 
front of the wheelers, who now be- 
came excited and plunged and reared 
to help the general confusion. 

I was beginning to understand 




why it was necessary to be "ready 
to move." I felt a bit ill. "Oh 
you miserable rabbit! Your old 
enemy again, Fear, sitting on your 
shoulder. Cannot you get some of 
the calm of these men, if only — 
Oh mercy!" 

This last exclamation was jerked 
out by a sudden lurch of the carry- 
all as the wheelers, breaking away 
from restraint, started to bolt. The 
brake was jammed hard down and 
the leaders were in the way. An 
awful mix-up ensued. One horse 
was down; phrases were flying in 
the air. "Whoa, there you devil!" 
"Here you, go sit on his head" — 
"Look out, this ain't no pink-tea 
party, Baldy's got la-igs," "Whoa 
there. I've got him!!" "Oh hell! 
Steady there, have you got it buck- 
led?" "Hold him tight!" By some 
incredible sleight of hand the few 
buckles were fastened, the reins 
slipped through the guards, and 
Sommers jumped to his seat, gath- 
ered up the reins, loosened the brake 
a little, shouted "Now! " The men 
scrambled away from the plunging 
leaders — and bedlam was let loose. 



The leaders reared, backed, twisted 
until they were so tied up in the 
harness that they were helpless. 
The three men after much struggling 
and great risk of injury, managed 
to disentangle them. 

"Get a whip and lash 'em, make 
'em go," called Sommers, as calm 
as though giving an order to feed 
them four quarts apiece. Again the 
order was given. ' ' Ready — sail into 
them." The horses were released 
and before they could turn, a merci- 
less lashing sent them forward with 
ears laid back. From side to side 
the carry-all swung, bump — thump 

— jerk . We clung to each other 

and to the carriage. First on one 
wheel then on another it tottered, 
but the driver was clever. He made 
no attempt to keep the road. Here 
no fences confined it and the way 
was level and sandy with a thin car- 
pet of low vegetation. After a mile 
of this I ventured to speak. There 
was as yet no sign of docility and 
the animals pursued their snake- 
like course. 

"A fresh horse in this country 
evidently means an unbroken one. 




It's an outrage to have to drive with 
such creatures." 

"Ye see, Ma'am, that's why the 
boss didn't specially hanker to send 
ye out. He don't keep no lady's 
hosses in this outfit, an' this being 
in the beginning of the season, them 
cayuses will know more if they live 
through it. But them leaders come 
mixed, hoss an' mule; mighty tough, 
an' mighty ornery." 

"They ought to be broken before 
risking traveller's lives. Are you 
afraid?" Gracious! We struck a 
gnarled shrub and swung sidewise 
dangerously and I repented my 
loquacity. I was answered in the 
order of remarks. 

"Yes ma'am, but it is cheaper 
for the Company to do it this way. 
No ma'am; leastways it don't count." 

I wondered whether he really did 
know fear. Whether or not, it was 
evident that it did not "count." 
I laid the thought away after label- 
ling it "tonic," but asked no more 
questions, and after three miles had 
worried past and a steep ascent 
begun, the animals had lost some 
of their energy, although they con- 




THE ROAD LED THROUGH THE FRAGRANT DEEP- 
SHADOWED PINES 



tinued to be nervous to the end 
of the relay. 

The afternoon wore on. Unaccus- 
tomed to such excitement and long 
hours of cramped sitting, we were 
feeling wearied and chilled, and the 
sandwich lunch brought from the 
Palace Hotel and eaten en route, 
was causing discomfort. 

Tired as I was, the charm of the 
mountains began to claim me. The 
storm had passed. All was damp 
and soggy and the sun could not 
break through a barrier of clouds, 
but the greyness was deepening 
into darker shadows, and the time 
of all the day that I loved most, 
its close, had come. The road had 
been mounting for the past two 
hours and at six o'clock the third 
and last relay station was reached. 
The change of horses was accom- 
plished without much trouble, and 
we dashed off through the fragrant, 
deep-shadowed pines, on the twenty- 
mile home stretch to the little log 
hotel on the Cafion's edge. We were 
now on a table land clothed with 
alpine forest, its pungent odour was 
like a draught of wine, intoxicating 



74 



with a promise of all the glad days 
to come. 

"I hope they have something" 
substantial. No communication for 
three days and a party of ten snow 
bound there is not encouraging," 
said Nimrod, beating his hands to- 
gether to restore circulation. 

Another hour past. "See, isn't 
that a light," at last! 

"At least there will be hot coffee," 
he added, apprehensively. Seventy 
miles of cold and storm with only 
a sandwich lunch having made us 
solicitous of creature comforts. The 
sounds of the wagon had brought 
some one to the door and a cheering 
bar of light streamed into the dark- 
ness. There was hot coffee and other 
things and with anticipation of the 
morrow, we stole up the rough un- 
carpeted stairs to a cold, bare little 
room, undressed shivering, and as 
quickly as possible sought oblivion 
on a bumpy mattress under calico 
patch-work quilts — ^maximum of 
weight and minimum of warmth. 
I love creature comforts, the tub 
bath, the warm dressing room, the 
nightly hair brushing, the soft light 



covering and easeful bed — and when 
foregone, it is a deliberate renuncia- 
tion for some recognised good. After 
all, those things do not touch the 
soul, and life in the mountains does. 
Under its spell the unimportant de- 
tails of a routine life in the East shrink 
to their proper size and one expands 
as the purple lupin unfolds its sensi- 
tive leaves to the sun, and shuts 
them again in the dark. 

In the morning I opened eyes on 
the figure of Nimrod perched on a 
chair peering through a small win- 
dow in the roof. 

"Well?" 

"Can't see a thing. A thick grey 
fog — might as well be on board ship. 
What luck!" 

About eleven there were signs of 
the fog lifting and we, eager with 
anticipation, put on rubber coats 
and goloshes. We were cautioned 
not to go more than a hundred feet 
from the door, as the Canon began 
abruptly. Hand in hand we ad- 
vanced through the mist until sud- 
denly we stopped and drew back 
breathless. The peculiar difference 
in the blankness before us showed 



that in a moment we would have 
stepped off into space to fall — how 
far we could not tell, but even then, 
as we stood straining our eyes, ap- 
peared in ghostly forms the tops of 
trees. The place was full of mystery, 
as we stood on the edge of the un- 
known that peculiar stillness of a 
fog heavy about us, while spread 
before, if we could but penetrate 
the veil, lay unimagined wonders of 
Nature's treasure house. Then the 
thick whiteness around us began 
moving right to left and upward. 
The whole closed curtain rose wave 
after wave, mile after mile, and 
revealed an expanse of colour and 
form shining in the sunlight stretch- 
ing on — on — to the end of the world, 
so appallingly beautiful that I felt 
my brain reel. Turning away from 
the terrifying grandeur of it, I sank 
to the ground. The suddenness of the 
revelation had left no time for prep- 
aration, and I gazed at the com- 
monplace grass blades to restore my 
balance. 

In a moment, half ashamed of 
so much emotion, I looked up to see 
Nimrod disappearing into the stable. 




He was gone so long that I began 
to feel worried; then he came back 
looking triumphant and a little sheep- 
ish. Without a word he thrust an 
envelope into my hand with some- 
thing written on it. Mushrooms 
grow best in dark detritus, the edel- 
weiss scorns all but the most rugged 
spot in which to flower, Nimrod 
in a pigstye had produced this: 

"A thousand miles — the continent upheav- 
ing 

Thro storms of sand, of rain, of driving snow, 

And then a sudden pause upon an awful 
hidden brink 

Where all upheaval seemed to fail, an inch 
before your very feet. 

The reason lost, the universe forgot, in 
mists unknown, immeasurable. 

And then a change : 

This way and that the Powers uproll the 

veil; 
An inch beyond your very foot a great 

abyss. 
Down! down! down! the mists are rolled 

away. 
Thousands upon thousands of headlong 

dizzy feet. 
Down ! down ! down ! with piney forests on 

their nearest side, 
More small than moss, 
Down ! down ! down ! to blue eternity. 





And up! up! up! the swirling mists are 

rolled, 
Till peaks prismatic gleam and rise 
In sheen of purple, opal, red and gold. 
Up ! up I in ranks until they seem to comb 

the flying scud 
That swims upon the heaven of heavens; 
And shadowy peaks still higher yet appear, 
And up and up and upward still, till lost in 

blue eternity. 

And still the mist is rolled away, 

And in the light of revelation there, 

Far down — unspeakably far, 

A long thin winding shining line — gray 

green. 
The river — ancient as the earth — 
Whose aqua-fortis flood, God's graver was, 
With which this gorge was cut. 
Profounder than the gulfs between the 

stars it seemed, 
And awful as the day of Judgment come. 

One moment there the sun refulgent shone ; 
Then warning, "Thou hast seen enough 
For all thy days remaining." 
Far down the mist of mists is rolled again 
A film, a veil, a curtain-like futurity, 
The last, the nearest of the peak is hid. 
And just an inch beyond your very foot 
An awful brink abysmal." 



Just think what it did to him — a 
calliper scientist. 

In a place homely — most homely — 



and time-tried he had sought mental 
equilibrium. He had to run away 
from the tremendous vision to 
unload his mind of the burden, ere 
it was crushed! 

In the sublime there is no laughter; 
so more sanely now we surveyed 
the scene. All the colours of the 
rainbow blazed mile after mile away 
like some titanic jewel casket, with 
the gem of all, the boiling, seething 
flood of the Colorado flashing like 
a tiny streak of lightning, down 
crag after crag, valley after valley, 
below. 

So this was the Canon that paint- 
ers had dared to portray, that writers 
had dared to describe. I was 
drunk with the gorgeous beauty 
and immensity of it, even glad to 
turn away and be busied with the 
details of a horseback ride along the 
brink. We reluctantly decided to 
give up the trip down the Canon, 
as Hank's Trail was out of repair 
and dangerous owing to the storm. 
The guides were unwilling to take 
us that day, and we could not wait. 

As I was getting into the saddle, 
having obtained a battered riding 




skirt, a nomadic "outfit" of Indians 
came up to the hotel. There were 
about twenty horses, five men and 
several women, children and dogs. 
They were not allowed to stop, but 
passed at a snail's pace, while two 
of the men bartered badger skins 
for tobacco and sugar, and a squaw 
displayed some baskets and bead- 
work of Apache designs. 

"It is good to be here before the 
railroad and the funicular to the 
bottom and the modem hotel and 
all the tiresome civilisation that is 
sure to come, and before the Indians 
give us Greek beadwork." 

"The savages out-savaged," Nim- 
rod replied, mounting his animal, 
and gibed no more, for the Buckskin 
playfully rolled his eyes and bucked 
and bucked and bucked. 




,iyrtlr."iMi>/i<"' <!•'.."• „i. . . A,.^ 





A DISCURSION ON THE BRONCHO 

E were to "outfit" at 
PineCone Lodge, Idaho, 
ninety miles from the 
railroad. The"Tevi," 
our usual manner of 
designating Sally and 
Bobbie plurally, were already waiting 
charged with the task of making ar- 
rangements. Bert Sommers came 
with us ; Nimrod providently annexed 
him at the Cafion, knowing that he 
was footloose and a native of the 
Bitter Roots. 

"He knows how to manage these 
animated pepper pots they call 



82 



horses, and he knows the country!" 
Enough, a good guide is a precious 
thing, to be secured when found, 
like a nugget in the road. 

Sally Tevis is wonderful. She is 
not exceptionally beautiful, but she 
makes one think she is. Her figure 
is long and thin, her face is thin and 
long, her hair is black and straight, 
her complexion is sallow from a 
liberal allowance of ill health and 
she is no longer young, fast losing 
the thirties; but the wit, keen per- 
ception, wide cultivation and the 
initiated yet sweet outlook on life, 
makes so brilliant a spirit that it 
flares through a common-place 
exterior as the sun through a 
window. I always think of her as 
young and beautiful. She is, for her 
spirit is that and she is all spirit. 
" A wisp of fire, " Bobbie once called 
her. 

The Tevi rode out several miles 
to meet us. Sally was attired in a 
very new costume of grey corduroy 
elaborately banded and vested with 
leather, the same as her high boots. 
The skirt was short and artistically 
bifurcated. "It is its premiere — 





the only model that does not maice 
a woman look a fright," she said, 
submitting to my inspection — 
" Bobbie approves, he hinted at 
rather more leather, but it will stand 
alone now, I think. It is very heavy 
and stiff but Bobbie would have it 
match his, and you know the Duchess 

has one in which she rides 'cross 

country. Otherwise no, not at all 
for little Sally. You look as fresh 
and lovely as ever" (Sally always 
says agreeable things) "but you 
must be tired. Everything is packed 
ready for to-morrow from the essen- 
tial powderpxiff in my saddle bag 
to the unimportant food and 
bedding." She deposited a light kiss 
on the left cheek as I scrambled out 
of the buckboard over saddles and 
bundles. 

" You won't find anything here but 
a few decrepit 'lung-ers' and a. man 
with a grouch. He may be dis- 
tinguished by a scowl and green 
plaid stockings. Green is the safety 
signal, but don't be deceived; I have 
suffered, so I have warned." 

We ate a nondescript meal to this 
lively accompaniment and going 



some distance from the rambling 
log " shack " and its cluster of one- 
room log cabins that formed Pine 
Cone Lodge, the Tevi, Nimrod and 
I spent the afternoon in target 
practice, for later when we are in 
game country we could not be bang- 
ing guns and disturbing all the game 
within ten miles. 

Nimrod does not shoot except with 
the camera, gave it up long ago. 
He hunts the animals longer and 
harder than any to study them. I 
had one rifle and the Tevi had six 
"shooting irons." Not that the Tevi 
are so bloodthirsty but Bobbie Tevis 
attended to the equipment and Bob- 
bie has theories. Everything he has, 
Sally must have; it easily resulted in 
an arsenal, two rifles, two shotguns, 
a Mauser and a twenty-two for small 
things ; and Sally industriously hunts 
and shoots when Bobbie hunts and 
shoots, wears waterproof boots like 
his and a hat like his, and is also in 
grey-brown clothes the colour of the 
woods. A red shirt waist (red is 
Sally's colour), independently pur- 
chased, was left behind. 

"Bobbie was afraid the game 





might see it or smell it through the 
leatheroid telescope and fly the 
country," Sally explained, giving 
her husband an affectionate pat, to 
extract any possible sting. 

"You know. Petty, I suggested 
your bringing it for wear in camp. ' ' 

"Yes, but it came out at the last 
minute to make room for that extra 
hundred rounds of ammunition. We 
are quite ready to be subsidised by 
some South American government. 
Good, Bobbie, that was a splendid 
shot, a bull's eye, was n't it?" 

It was barely in the white, but she 
said it to make up. If once in a 
while she rubbed the velvet of 
Bobbie's good temper the wrong 
way, she immediately smoothed it 
back again. Perhaps I should not 
expose her methods but they are so 
successful, and Nimrod says he does 
not object to being flattered even 
when he suspects the process, if it 
is done artistically. Most men are 
that way, it would seem. 

Sally is a good shot; in spite of 
her brown eyes she rarely misses the 
bull's eye. Bobbie is as proud of it as 
though it were his accomplishment. 




"I wonder what luck in horses 
this time," said Nimrod. "I hope 
they are safe." 

The Tevi exchanged glances. 

"Well, we have done our best," 
Bobbie exclaimed, in dogged tones 
that suggested history. 

" You may as well tell them now, " 
said Sally. "We'll never be able not 
to, it is too good a story." 

"There is one thing a tenderfoot 
can count on in buying horses out 
here. He will get the worst of it," 
Nimrod said consolingly. 

"That's right," and Bobbie 
fetched a deep sigh — ' * you saw the 
thing I was riding to-day? Well, 
that's my latest." 

"Go on, Bobbie. It is all in the 
day's work. ' ' His wife's eyes twinkled 
sympathetically. 

" Well, there is a chap here with the 
most of his palate gone, talked as 
though he had a hot potato in his 
mouth, fishy eyes, dirty, lazy, Dick 
Jones, he is a duffer." 

" Katy is all right for Pet, but the 
'Captain' Lusk you know, who owns 
this lodge, had nothing I wanted to 
ride, so I decided to send Jones to 



Silver City, over the mountains by 
a short cut, to get me a good saddle 
horse. He was always mtimbling 
what a great judge of 'hoss flesh' 
he was. His instructions were, 
' easy-gaited, fast walker, plenty 
of spirit, but no mean tricks, 
broken to game shooting from the 
saddle, not particular as to color 
so long as it be not white.' I 
never could endure a white horse. 
The price was to be twenty dollars, 
or at most twenty-five, and a five- 
dollar bonus for going. As I had 
nothing but a hundred- dollar bill and 
no one here had change — I gave it to 
him. Charley, our cook, was stand- 
ing near during the transaction. 
He disappeared quickly toward the 
'bar' to get a drink and thus forti- 
fied, ejaculated to a group of loafers — 
' Hun'red — Jones — Silver City — ^hoss 
— be goll-damed!' 

"Such loquacity for him was 
significant and I own I had mis- 
givings, so I did not bother Sally 
with the details of my little trans- 
action. " 

"You said you had sent him to 
get a horse, but I remember, it took 




88 



Dick four hours to get himself out 
of the 'bar' and into the saddle," 
put in Sally, "but at last he rode 
away down the trail, a hunched up 
figure in gray flannel shirt, dilapi- 
dated vest and trousers, battered 
hat and boots, with luggage to the 
extent of a coat and a slicker tied on 
behind." 

"That was Monday," continued 
Bobbie; "I expected that he would 
return the following evening, but 
was not surprised that Tuesday 
night passed and no sign of Dick. 
Wednesday night came and went. 
On Thursday I mentioned my fear 
to the boys that something had 
happened him. It was received with- 
out concern. ' Oh, he'll come back 
all right. He's got a gun. If there 
was anything wrong w^e'd hear.' 
But my conjectures as to what 
might be detaining him elicited no 
information. 

"On Friday, yesterda3% the Cap- 
tain, spurred by my suggestion to 
send a search party for the missing 
Dick, spoke out — 

" 'Now don't you worry about 
Dick Jones. He don't know a horse 




89 



from a picket pin, and as fer ridin* 
he couldn't set on the ground 'thout 
holdin' onto the bushes; but he'll 
bring you a hoss all right, an' he'll 
be back to-night or to-morrow — 
that hundred can't last much longer. 
If ye didn't want him to cut loose, 
ye had no call to give it to him. ' 

"Sally heard this speech — and be- 
haved like an angel. Well, we waited 
and waited, until this morning, 
when taking one of my accustomed 
glances up the Silver City trail I 
spied two objects approaching." 

Bobbie stopped overcome by his 
emotions. Sally finished. 

" A rusty bay on which sat a man 
in all the glory of a new ready-made 
suit, blue-flannel shirt, red necktie, 
new hat, new boots, from which 
projected huge spurs, and behind, 
in tow, was — a gaunt white horse. 
White, my dears, white. With sag- 
ging head and lagging feet, Bobbie's 
charger approached; with one ac- 
cord we went into the shack, shut 
the door, sat down on the table 
and laughed till we were weak." 

" You see him ! " exclaimed Bobbie. 
"He is a broken down cavalry horse 




— worse than being tossed 
blanket trying to ride him. 

"He couldn't get up a jump if a 
cannon exploded over him, Dick, 
aggrieved by my lack of enthusiasm, 
demonstrated how gun-broken the 
creature was by emptying his 
revolver, over, under, behind, and 
in front of him. 

" 'Why don't you try one here?' 
I asked, putting a finger on the ani- 
mal's sunken temple. If you could 
have heard his unpalated explana- 
tion of his bargain, 'twenty-five 
dollars, dirt cheap — ^finest hoss in the 
mountains, etc. ' Of course the seven- 
ty was not forthcoming. With an 
indignant surprise he announced his 
intention of working it out. He 
then took his new clothes and his 
very seedy face into retirement to 
sleep it off. Has not been seen 
since. ' ' 

"We have christened the horse, 
'The Whited Sepulchre.' But it is 
all right for to-morrow, " Sally added 
quickly. "Bobbie discovered that 
the Captain has some good saddle 
horses up his sleeve for extra 
stipend." 




''"^•9(IMVVQBrH>ftWI<»» • 



Bobbie's face lighted up with his 
genial smile. 

" Yours, Mrs. Nimrod, is all right, 
I'll warrant. She was offered to us 
for twenty dollars by an impecunious 
cowboy who was stopping here a day 
or two. Kentuck he called her! 
She is a beauty for a mountain pony, 
slim, light, clean built, with chestnut 
coat, almost glossy in spite of no 
grooming, long black mane and tail. 
There must be a good strain of the 
blue grass in her — suppose that ac- 
counts for her name — and easy 
gaited, she can go like the wind. 
The mountain mixture makes her 
tough." 

Nimrod nodded — "A thorough- 
bred Kentuck ian would go to pieces 
in these mountains." 

"Of course, couldn't stand the 
hills and the altitude. I have ridden 
the horse for a couple of days. 
She is great, a flyer, easy on the bit, 
no tricks, gentle, high-strung. I 
closed that bargain like a shot, and 
afterwards told the chap he was 
crazy for letting her go. He was 
mounted on a shabby cow pony. 
'She's all the things you say, and a 



leetle more,' he said, 'look out for 
her, bein' a woman-hoss. ' With that 
he rode away, a queer look in his 
face. I think he had been drinking. 
She is a beauty, and no mistake." 






ON THE MARCH 

HE next morning we 
were to start at ten. 
Everybody had been up 
since daybreak, trying 
to reduce order from 
the chaot 7 scene in 
front of the lodge. 

It was already eleven o'clock. 
Sixteen laden animals were tied to 
every convenient post, tree or 
stump, saddle horses with reins 
trailing — ^the Western horse is taught 
to stand when the reins are on the 
ground — pawed and fidgeted. There 
was a certain glum feeling in the 
air caused by Lusk, who secretly 




disapproved of taking women on 
such a rough trip. It more or less 
affected the other guides. 

"Captain, we must have another 
pack-horse. Have you any left?" 
asked Nimrod. Lusk nodded and 
disappeared along the path up 
stream. Soon he returned with a 
queer expression on his face and be- 
hind him, at the length of a rope, was 
a dusty, sad-looking bay with a big 
collar of yellow-eyed daisies nodding 
their heads jauntily at every step. 
The three guides looked as though 
they had seen a banshee. Nimrod, 
with that strained look that comes 
when one wants to laugh, pulled 
the male Tevis behind a cabin, while 
Sally, with far too innocent a face, 
looked on. I remembered that she 
too had gone along that path shortly 
before. 

"Well, I'll be gashed," Sommers 
muttered, looking at the garland, as 
he threw the packsaddle into place. 
The bay laid back his ears. 

"Ornery?" His question was put 
to Lusk, who nodded in the affirm- 
ative. Charley, seeing the nod, stood 
ready to assist. Adjusting the ropes 




preparatory to the diamond hitch, 
Lusk gingerly keeping a sharp look- 
out for the animal's legs, ears and 
eye, lifted a pannier into position. 
That was the signal — in spite of 
Charley who was trying to hold up 
the head, down it went, the back 
humped suddenly, and Badger shot 
into the air, landed stiffly all four 
feet together, gave himself a shake, 
and resumed his normal pose bare 
of all encumbrances, save the daisy 
garland rakishly cocked on one 
ear. They felt it made them ri- 
diculous, yet not one of the three 
men would deign to remove it; 
hating the thing as though each 
nodding bloom were a viper ready 
to attack, they ignored it elabo- 
rately. Three times did Badger 
buck off his pack and each time 
all that remained from the wreck 
was his decoration. It stuck to him 
through all his vicissitudes like a pet 
sin and at last, when conquered, he 
was guided into line, a crushed and 
withered chaplet still hung round his 
neck, mocking reminder that there 
were "women in the outfit." A 
furtive wink at me was the only 



96 




indication that Sally was enjoying 
the guides' discomfiture. 

With the thudding of hoofs and 
a cloud of dust the pack-horses were 
driven out of the enclosure. Nimrod 
took the lead, the Tevi and I with 
him; our horses, impatient at the 
long delay, pranced and curveted 
under the restraining bit. 

The pace must be slow; a gallop- 
ing pack-horse soon loses his burden. 
But the animals behaved well. They 
all belonged to Lusk's "bunch," 
and knew each other. Those who 
were chums got together, and those 
who were fussy chose their favourite 
positions in the train. 

Dear things, they have their per- 
sonalities as well as humans and I 
soon made the acquaintance of some 
of them. Daisy, the blue- skin don- 
key, was second in line, only the old 
white horse, Billy, her favourite, 
in front. Sommers, skilfully landing 
a pebble on her as she was breaking 
line by trying to browse by the way- 
side, called in a tone of reproach, 
although guiltless of French: "Mar- 
guerite, get out of that." Daisy, 
thus doubly admonished, flirted her 




tail, drooped her left ear rakishly, and 
returned to business. Daisy is the 
morale of the pack-train. She knows 
just how many pounds she should 
carry without bucking off her pack, 
she can calculate to the fraction of an 
inch whether or not the space be- 
tween two trees will allow her pack, 
which projects far beyond her sides, 
to pass. She knows when on' the 
march that she has to attend to 
business. She has a genius for pick- 
ing out the best trail, avoiding bogs, 
logs, wasps' nests and overhanging 
branches. She has been known to 
grope her way across a bog on a sunk- 
en, invisible log. She will allow no one 
in front of her but a man on horse- 
back or Billy, a rather stupid horse 
for whom she has an attachment. She 
carries the bottles and breakables, 
and being a quick walker keeps Billy 
up to his work; in any other part of 
the line he lags badly, is very lazy 
and much given to side nibbling. 
Charcoal, a black horse, has de- 
veloped this trait into an art. He 
chooses the middle of the train, that 
being usually farthest from human 
interference, and no matter how 




high his head is tied he seems to 
manage to feed, a fast walker and 
cunning, he has been a good saddle 
horse, until a streak of outlawry 
reduced him to the ranks, and feed 
he will, on duty or not. He has been 
known to take advantage of a hill- 
side or a ditch in order to bring his 
tied-up head within range of the 
grass, and a favourite trick to meet 
the difficulty is lying down. He has 
long since demonstrated that it is 
better to let him have his way. His 
method is to leave the line of horses, 
all going in single file, dash ahead, 
nibble by the roadside until the 
train catches up to him, whereupon 
he will fall into the vacant place that 
he considers his. In the timber he 
behaves himself, as there are no 
temptations, and many knocks and 
falls have taught him that it is easier 
to let someone else pick the trail for 
him. Molly, the buckskin, is always 
the last if she can arrange it. In 
her equine fashion she seems to have 
worked out the problem of getting 
through the march with as little 
trouble as possible. 

This brings her next to Charley, 



99 



the cook, whose proximity and 
authority keep her in the trail. 
Like some humans she is happier 
within sight of the cross, and she 
has noticed that her companions 
one and two ahead, get all the ad- 
monishing pebbles. She likes to have 
Baldy, a raw-boned bay, in front of 
her in spite of his unpleasant posses- 
sion of a free-flying pair of heels. 
Resignation is her chief attribute. 
Baldy, aside from, or because of, the 
above-mentioned trait, is a pro- 
fessional bucker. He always expects 
to buck off his pack once or twice 
the first morning, but after that pre- 
liminary flourish he behaves like a 
gentleman. Baldy 's dashing spirit 
seems to captivate the ladies, for 
Maybell always struggles for the place 
in front of him to secure the bitter- 
sweet of his friendly nips at tail and 
flank. Maybell is a brown mare of 
cow-like disposition and structure. 
Upon her pot-bellied frame no sad- 
dle will stick, and although the poor 
thing was cinched within an inch 
of her life, apparently, so copious 
were the groans and wheezings, a 
cunning device of blowing herself 



out enabled her, when the opera- 
tion was over, to shrink comfortably 
within her girths, and soon the pack 
would go careening to one side, if not 
strewn on the ground. Maybell on 
this occasion reserved her contri- 
bution to the general confusion in- 
cidental to starting, until the river 
was reached. 

Nimrod leading, Lusk and Som- 
mers in the water guiding, and 
Charley bringing up the rear, the 
horses were getting through nicely 
when a cry of " Maybell! " turned all 
eyes to the middle of the stream 
where the unfortunate animal was 
struggling in the water. Her pack 
had turned completely under, making 
a resistance to the rushing current 
up to her withers too great for May- 
bell to withstand. She was swept 
completely off her feet. I saw Som- 
mers and Lusk spur their horses to 
the rescue. There was a swirling 
splashing of water, Baldy and Molly 
stampeded and got into deep water 
where they had to swim, the packs 
getting soaked, and Charley strug- 
ling to lead them to the bank. Nim- 
rod directing me to continue to lead 





the train so as to get them all out 
of the stream, galloped back, Bob- 
bie with him, to guide the other 
startled animals safely into the 
shallows. 

Meanwhile a skilful bit of work 
was going on in the middle of the 
stream. Maybell, frenzied and help- 
less, tied up with loosened ropes, was 
kicking furiously. Lusk dexterously 
managed to get a rope around her 
neck and fastened the other end to 
his pommel, held her head up, while 
Sommers struggled to get near 
enough to cut one of the girths; all 
three were being swept down stream 
by the swift current. At last he 
succeeded, another broke, and May- 
bell, partially released from her bur- 
dens, was towed to shore, where by 
this time all the horses in a dis- 
organised group, were awaiting. 

Without a word Lusk galloped 
down stream along the bank keeping 
track of the floating bundle until it 
struck against a boulder and lodged 
there. I was much pleased to see his 
loyal solicitude for our stuff. 

"It's his bedding, you know," 
said Charley with a chuckle. "He 



knows better than to put anything 
else on Maybell. It will be kinder 
moist for a snooze. There goes a 
shoe. He's got it." In half an hour 
Maybell's soggy burden was in place, 
various cinches tightened and the 
train again in line, jogging along 
comfortably for the day now, I 
hoped, at the usual three miles an 
hour gait. 

The trail wound up an easy ascent 
through pleasant meadows, jewelled 
with dainty purple lupin bloom and 
the feathery red-top, and, scattered 
freely with great patches of daisies, 
like Nature's linen on the grass to 
bleach: through groves of aspen 
fluttering careless leaves for every 
vagrant zephyr and into the dark- 
hearted pines, mysterious with the 
messages of the ages past, ere man 
was bom, and the gods of the grow- 
ing things trod their shaded aisles. 
The trail slipped under fallen forest 
prides, the mighty sticks that time 
had felled as easil}' as the sapling is 
broken by the wind. It leaped over 
baby brooks just learning to run down 
the hillside, and slipped from stone 
to stone, to where the torrents dashed 




along. It stopped at the brink of a 
canon and began again on the other 
side, leaving the trusting traveller, 
without guidance, to get over the 
chasm as best he might. It grew 
faint sometimes and ran wild in a 
choice of ways whimsically conceal- 
ing its direction so that only the 
skilled could follow. It forked with- 
out sign to tell its bent, save a broken 
twig, crushed grass blade, or over- 
turned pebble — frail witness for the 
tenderfoot; and at last it left the 
earth altogether and joined the points 
of the compass, the sun and the 
Polar star. 

Then "Captain" took the lead; 
he scanned the ascent sharply 
and began to pick a trail around 
bushes and boulders and over the 
crumbling gravelly soil. We fell into 
line plod — ^plod — plod — the breathing 
of horses, the creaking of leather, 
the tinkle of a bell on Daisy, the 
rattle of tinware on Dolly, plod — 
plod — and another table-land was 
reached. Through heavy timber now, 
dodging brambles, jumping logs, on 
and on, hour after hour; unable to 
endure the saddle cramp, I was 



:^< 



104 



walking, panting and breathless with 
exercise in that altitude. The blood 
pounded in my head with such a 
noise that Sally caught an arm be- 
fore I realised that she had been 
speaking. 

"We camp beyond the clearing, 
I rode on to tell you. How do you 
like Kentuck? Katy appears to be 
all the Captain claims for her, steady, 
mountain- wise and plenty of nerve." 
She began to sing softly — 

"Sweet Katy Conner, 
I dote upon her. 
Kate, Kate, my charming Kate, 
I hope you'll carry me, 
Nor please don't take a notion 
Of complicated motion 
And fling my precious bonelets 
In the branches of a tree." 

What did I think of Kentuck? 
There certainly was something queer 
about her. Perhaps it was that cow- 
bov calling her a "woman-hoss" 
put it into my head, but only a short 
time ago, I had felt Kentuck sud- 
denly getting ready to jump. I could 
not imagine why. There was a stick, 
perhaps two inches thick, lying in 



i°S, 




the trail, but she had gathered her- 
self together and jumped high enough 
to have cleared a three-foot log. Be- 
ing unprepared, I acquired a horrid 
crick in the neck. Since then, how- 
ever, she had passed other sticks 
and paid no attention to them. I 
decided a fly must have stung her and 
made answer — 

" She is a treasure, canters like 
an automobile rocking-chair. Fast 
walker, too, which is a comfort on 
the march." 

The trail had arrived and at once 
lost itself in a wide meadow, as 
level and safe as a boulevard, not 
even a badger hole in sight. So we 
broke into a canter — glorious motion, 
the air, sparkling wine, when like a 
rocket Kentuck jumped in the air and 
stopped stock still, trembling, all 
four feet together. I came down on 
her neck, by some wonder did not 
go over, and managed to work back 
over the pommel into the saddle 
again. 

" What on earth was that?" I in- 
quired. Sally looked worried and 
said I should be careful. 

"Of what?" I demanded, rather 



nettled. Considerably shaken, we 
proceeded at a walk to follow the 
pack-train, perhaps half a mile away, 
when we came to a natural ditch, 
a crack in the earth about four feet 
wide and six or seven feet deep. 
Katy was a little ahead. She jumped 
across it, but Kentuck, my treasure, 
tried to step across, and so down she 
plunged into the opening while I went 
tumbling, fortunately, on to the op- 
posite bank, it proved, as there was 
no room for two in the crevice. 

The mare was up in an instant, I 
took more time; the ride was be- 
coming unpleasurably full of inci- 
dent. The problem now presented 
was how to get her out of that crack! 
The walls of it were absolutely 
straight. Picking up the bridle with 
a forked stick, I led her several 
hundred yards and then sat down. 
Why try to get her up? Why try 
to do anything but lie in the lap 
of my sorrows? Meanwhile Sally's 
signal of distress was bringing 
Nimrod. 

He soon extracted Kentuck from 
the fissure and the symptoms of 
her behaviour from me. 




THE RIDE WAS BECOMING UNPLEASURABLY 
FULL OF INCIDENT 



;o9 




"The mare is locoed, all the symp- 
toms," he announced. 

"Locoed!" echoed Bobbie, who 
had arrived in time to hear the tale. 
"I know what that means! Then she 
is really luny, sees things, a little 
thing looks big, another big thing 
looks little at the same time. They 
say that a horse or cow that eats of 
the loco weed never is cured. It's 
like the opium habit or "hasheesh" 
mighty uncanny. They go along for 
days and weeks without an attack, 
then all of a sudden there's the devil 
to pay." Bobbie settled in a heap 
on his horse! His chagrin was so 
obliterating, it was funny. "Mrs. 
Nimrod what do you think of me! 
I'll never buy another horse! You 
are welcome to use me for a door 
mat!" 

My feelings had sustained the prin- 
cipal injury, so it behooved me to 
be magnanimous. 

"Caesar once made a mistake, 
I believe." 

I rode the rest of the way on 
Bobbie's other failure, the " Whited 
Sepulchre." He insisted upon it, 
while he walked behind leading Ken- 



tuck, Kentuck looking as innocent 
as a basket of figs in which the viper 
rests. No more with us, at least, 
would she toil or bear a burden. 

"Thus is vice rewarded," com- 
mented Sally when a few moments 
later, at camp, my saddle dropped 
from the mare and she was free to 
roam the mountains, to seek her 
favourite food, thrive on the lux- 
uriant grass and drink from the 
clearest streams. I sank back into 
the pine needles, a sweet sense of 
ease after exertion. Thrice welcome 
rest the reward of a difficult day, and 
lavishly did nature send her minions 
to attend — the fragrance of dead 
pine, the fillip of ozone, and the 
caressing voices of breeze-blown 
leaves. 

Too soon the bustle of making 
camp assailed, and determined not to 
show the white feather, I too, be- 
came one of the camp scene. All 
were busy. Nimrod, in haste to pro- 
vide me with comfort, was starting 
the fire. The Tevi were puzzling over 
the raising of a tent, the guides were 
unloading tired animals as swiftly 
as possible, sweated blankets were 



taken from aching backs, hobbles 
snapped on forelegs, and with much 
joyous kicking of hind-legs, frisk- 
ing and rolling in the dust, great 
solace to an itching skin, the 
'bunch,' kept together by Daisy's 
bell, ambled afield. Surplus pro- 
visions were all stacked neatly in a 
pile ready for the morning, and 
covered with canvas in case of 
showers; provisions and utensils 
were clustered near the cook fire, 
where Charley had begun prepara- 
tions for the evening meal and be- 
tween times chopped wood. Lusk 
and Sommers assisted in putting up 
the tents, so that we could "move 
in, " rubber beds were blown up, 
sleeping beds placed on top, night 
things laid out, change of clothing, 
rubber tub, toilet necessaries needed 
for the morning, the candle lamp, 
and matches handy. In a tent a 
thing unvailable is a thing lost. 

We all worked. It was good ex- 
ercise after long hours in the saddle 
and we knew well the independent 
spirit of these mountaineers. They 
as little expect to render personal 
service as the Secretary of a Company 




expects to be the body slave of its 
President. 

A gay little offshoot of the rush- 
ing brook beyond, babbled past our 
tent door. Nimrod was sketching 
some great blue berries that hung 
over it. Again I flung myself on the 
bank to rest a "vast half-hour" 
before dinner. How plentifully hun- 
ger throws itself about in this active 
life! 

" If anyone should happen to take 
a photograph of this scene it would 
meet with my approval," said Nim- 
rod, looking hard at me. " The cam- 
era is on my saddle pommel over 
there. You can see I'm busy." I 
arose resignedly; evidently no lotus 
eating was to be tolerated in that 
camp. 

" 'First one thing and then an- 
other, always cheerful and busy, 
that's my motto,' said the old 
woman as she dug up flowers to see 
if they were growing. Nimrod, will 
you set your hat back a little, please. 
Sally, put down that towel, that's 
a dear. Tut, tut, Bobbie Tevis, I 
suspect you of posing, you have not 
carried that gun all da.y and there is 




no possibility of bear until to- 
morrow. ' ' 

" It's Sally's, I am going to clean 
it," was the outraged rejoinder, by 
which the wise may know to just 
what stage the "foto" had pro- 
gressed. 








'kv^^^s?iiS 



A FIRE RIDE 




N THE East one may 
have nothing more orig- 
inal than a banana peel 
or a railroad accident 
to threaten life, but in 
the Rockies one has 
flood, fire, cyclone, quicksand, bog- 
holes in endless variety, and animals 
from the fretful quill-pig in his quills 
to the fighting elk, equipped with 
an arsenal of polished ivory points. 
It happened on the Fourth of July 
about an hour after the usual caval- 
cade had stnmg out for the day's 
march, that we met with an adven- 



ture so full of pyrotechnics that it 
seemed as though even here must the 
spirit of the " signers " penetrate. We 
noticed a peculiar haze that grew 
rapidly denser. "A forest fire on 
ahead," Nimrod said; and soon we 
saw before us a great forest belt 
where a fire had been raging for days. 
A few forest rangers had been 
struggling with it, but they were 
able only to keep the greedy monster 
from extending its sweep on each 
side as it ate its way ravenously 
down the wind. The broad track of 
destruction, two or three miles wide, 
was saddening to see — tree trunks 
lying prostrate in a smoking mass of 
children- trees and forest growth, or 
still upright, pointing charred and 
maimed signals to heaven. The air 
was grey with flying ashes and the 
flames leaped and crackled as they 
ran along the ground through the 
berry bushes and dead leaves, and 
worked along the tree branches that 
a moment before had been beautiful 
with life; changing all things, as at 
the blight of a witch's wand, from 
a riot of colour, brilliant greens, 
browns, orange and scarlet — to 




mourning, all the well-loved forms of 
the forest shrivelled and twisted, 
draped in leaden greys and deepest 
black. What pain, what sorrow, 
what beauty spoiled, what needless 
waste, what visions of the under- 
world laid bare! It might have been 
the enchanted circle that always in 
Fairyland protects the Beauty and 
Delight beyond. 

To cross it was like one of the 
labours of Hercules, but there was 
no way around; either forward, or 
retreat. "Cap'n," who was leading, 
had something of Napoleon in him, 
and this was evidently not his Mos- 
cow. So into this havoc where the 
Fire King had passed but had not 
yet wholly given up his reign, we, 
and the entire pack-train, plunged. 
The horses were kept on a sharp trot, 
for the ground was still scorching 
hot in places. Each member of the 
party, Sally and myself included, 
took two or three . pack horses to 
drive ahead to keep them " pushed 
along " better. The trail was nearly 
obliterated ; our course wound in and 
out trying to avoid obstacles, old 
and new. Suddenly the horse before 



me gave a great leap over a burning 
tree that had just fallen. I was 
riding Katy that day. She snorted, 
as well she might, when she saw the 
three foot log with dancing flames 
its entire length barring the way. 

How were we going to get over 
that thing that seemed alive with 
wicked tongues darting, ready to 
devour? There was no time to be 
lost, and Katy took a high jump to 
avoid the flames, which, however, 
must have singed her, for she gave 
a double jump and a short run upon 
landing which was decidedly discon- 
certing. But I had not much time 
to think. There was a shout ahead, 
a stampede of pack-animals, and 
another burning tree crashed across 
my path. Falling trees were the 
greatest danger; at any time one of 
us might be felled to the earth. 
Katy and I took that tree at a trot, 
and another beyond. It was no 
place to linger; the air was electric. 

Weirdly strange, yet not strange. 
Where had I been through all this 
before? It assailed my senses and 
my memory. How familiar it seemed 
— ^the wonderful ringing Wagner 



fire-music was in my ears — ^beau- 
tiful, fearful, spellbinding. Brun- 
hild was not so much to be pitied 
after all. The intoxication of Loki 
was upon me. 

And what erratic tricks he plays! 
On my left I noticed the skeleton 
form of what had been a raspberry 
bush. Not a leaf was left — not a 
green bramble, but still in the very 
heart of it was one ripe, luscious- 
looking berry, hanging like a ruby 
in the midst of ruin. How had it 
escaped — that one touch of beauty? 

Near it was another impish trick 
of the conqueror — a weird sight 
indeed. A high white pine tree, so 
tall that its green branches waved 
triumphantly over the torment below, 
so sturdy and vigorous that its 
smooth bark had resisted the flames, 
but alas of no avail. The enemy had 
eaten into its heart; it was enduring 
the tortures of Prometheus. One 
side of its mighty base, five feet 
through, had been carved out as 
neatly as though fashioned by man 
for a fireplace, and here the flames 
crackled merrily, taking as does the 
vampire, its treasure of life, while 





the green plumes waved far above, 
as yet unconscious of their fate. 

We had gone over two miles, jump- 
ing, dodging, trotting and stumbling, 
throats and eyes smarting from the 
smoke until the two miles seemed 
twenty, when I saw that we were 
leaving the region of living fire and 
passing through a city of the dead. 
It had been a forest of young pines 
from four to ten inches thick, but 
now reduced to sorry plight, a be- 
wildering mass of charred sticks 
streaking upwards like accusing fin- 
gers from those in torment. In my 
ignorance I was relieved, thinking 
we were " out of the woods " ; but 
this proved the worst of all, for the 
sticks toppled over without warning 
— a breath of wind, the vibration of 
the horses' feet — and fell before the 
horses, even upon them, if they were 
not spry — a ghostly company, with- 
out stability, threatening injury at 
every turn. 

My clothes lashed with blackened 
branches had the general appearance 
of the zebra's skin. Every separate 
muscle ached, my knees were bruised 
from encounters with the trees which 




were very close together; but so far 
there had been no serious damage 
to the outfit. 

At last it was growing dark. I 
had settled down to a certain grim 
endurance, and had treated my 
nerves to a favourite tonic of which I 
have made mention before, that 
" cowards die many times before 
their death; the valiant never taste 
of death but once," when I heard 
a shout ahead which I knew must 
mean " Lost Horse Creek and our 
camping ground. ' ' 

Instantly my thoughts sped to 
that magnificent place of comfort 
— camp — where hunger and thirst 
and weariness would vanish. The 
picture was so pleasant that I 
quite forgot the very material part 
of me which just at that moment 
was in danger. But Katy, fortun- 
ately, was not imaginative, and saw 
that a six- inch tree was falling 
directly upon us. She quivered from 
head to foot and waited a second 
for the word of command that did 
not come, then she gave a great 
bound and stopped so short that I 
nearly went on without her. Then 



I too saw the awful thing that was 
descending upon us. I jerked back, 
but a near sapHng, released by the 
fall of the parent tree, was also com- 
ing down. We were between the 
two. 

Not having a woodman's eye I 
did not know how they were going 
to fall — did not know which way to 
move. " When you don't know what 
to do, don't do it" is a mountain 
adage. I clinched my teeth and 
waited. There were shouts, but 
meaningless to me, although I caught 
a glimpse of a man's pale face. One 
instant of suspense and the big tree 
crashed in front of Katy's nose. She 
started back in terror right in front 
of the falling sapling. I lashed her 
forward just in time to escape, and 
it came shivering down on Katy's 
rump, nearly bringing her to the 
ground. She recovered at once, and 
wildly started to run. ■♦ 

As it was impossible to run in 
those ruins and Katy was a moun- 
tain pony and knew it, she did the 
best she could with a series of jumps 
in the down timber, the repetition 
of which I can very well do without. 



;23( 



I felt like one of the monkeys at the 
circus that are strapped on the pony's 
backs — the pommel alone saved me 
and my self-respect. 

But we got out without further 
mishap, and after Katy had caught 
up with old Billy, three horses ahead, 
and told in a neigh or two all 
about it, she carried my tired bones 
to camp in tranquillity. 

Camp! Oh, the sweetness and 
peace of that nook in the mountain 
meadow, rich with grass for the 
horses, the snow peaks far above, the 
right breeze blowing, the intimate 
little brook, fringed with willows, 
gurgling in front of our tents, a grove 
of great pines standing sentinel, and 
far above the twinkling sky of night. 

"Alas, poor Easterners, who wot 
not of this life," murmured Sally, 
after dinner, snuggling luxuriously on 
a pile of rugs before the camp-fire, 
weary but happy. 

"Talk about fireworks," answered 
Bobbie, nursing a bruised foot, " Hoo- 
ray for a glorious Fourth! " 





BEAR AND FORBEAR 



HE Bitter Root Grizzly 
is the toughest of bears. 
Every one knows that, 
and he Hves in the 
roughest country. In 
fact Hfe becomes gener- 
ally superlative when hunting him. 
One is either going up, or going down, 
either travelling around boulders, 
which is abominable, or over slide 
rock, which is worse. Nothing is level 
nor easy. The mountains reveal their 
anatomy of rocks in the most har- 
dened fashion with only here and 
there a patch of vegetation, scrub oak 
or stunted pine to cover them. A 



pitiless country on horse and man, 
only the "roachback" thrives and 
the wing-footed goat. 

For three days on the trail we had 
climbed and panted and climbed, 
varied only by a day's travel in a 
cedar swamp, a fearsome place where 
we were like midges in a glue pot. 
It took long to forget the despair- 
ing struggles of our laden animals 
as they stuck in the mire. Imagine 
taking a pleasure trip where groans 
and frightened horse squeals and 
visions of broken legs and necks 
danced in the air, when to stay 
mounted was one's only safety. 
Jerk, your horse misses footing on 
a comparatively firm tussock and 
flounders fetlock, knee, shoulder 
deep, plunging, rearing, squealing, 
jump, jerk, down — nose in the mire; 
up, at last something firmer, a clump 
of willow roots for forefeet, a tre- 
mendous bound — you on top all the 
time, and the hind ones are out, all 
four hoofs in a foot's space. An in- 
stant for breath, but the footing too 
frail for such weight, again you 
plunge in, dodging the low, snarled 
branches so heavily interlaced above 




that at midday one travels in gloom ; 
protecting one's knees from the army 
of trunks, getting out of the way of 
Daisy and Billy, worse off than you — 
and this going on for hours. 

Ever we were toiling up, scaling 
bald ridges that left no cover for the 
imagination, mile after mile of chasm 
and rock showed death waiting but 
for an instant loss of poise, a single 
misstep of a horse. 

Oh, we had not lacked incident, 
and now we were enjoying the hiatus 
of some sweetly dull days in camp — 
a tiny strip of green, scant pasture for 
the horses, having called a halt. Un- 
compromisingly rose the rocky cliffs 
above, beside, beyond us. 

Bobbie Tevis was fishing in the 
inevitably nearby stream. 

I never could understand the 
fascination of holding an end of a stick 
while a foolish bit of string soaked 
in the water, but for Bobbie it has 
volumes of interest. The stick is 
glorified into a rod that cost a 
month's wage for a labouring man, 
and the paraphernalia of hooks, reels 
and flies takes more thought than my 
winter's wardrobe. Fortunately the 



mountain trout are delicious. Sally 
was lazily putting on rubber boots 
preparatory to joining her liege. 
Nimrod was sketching the home of 
some calling-hares on a big landslide 
back of the camp. 

The Pika are curious little creatures 
who store up their hay and winter 
supplies in the crevices of the rocks. 
When they are not disturbed they 
come out of their holes and sit in 
front sunning themselves and making 
little noises to each other, like a lot 
of Chicagoans on their doorsteps on 
a summer evening. They carry an 
astounding amount of stuff in great 
mouthfuls. I was ostensibly watch- 
ing the cook jerk some venison which 
was hung on a forked stick in an 
improvised smoke-house of willow 
shoots ; but the pungent smoke from 
the smouldering willow in no way 
disturbed my real occupation of being 
thoroughly, blissfully lazy. There was 
need to be, for soon we were to start 
on a bear hunt and this country is 
like an untrained guest, it is so 
unaccountable and demands so much 
energy. 

The party separated about ten 




o'clock. We wanted to be up in the 
likeliest place for bear in the late 
afternoon and it takes all day to get 
anywhere, for most of the travel, 
over merciless rocky steeps, has to 
be done on foot. Sally and I can go 
anywhere a horse can go, but the 
necessity for personal locomotion im- 
mediately puts us at a disadvantage. 

Nimrod and I took Sommers and 
started off westerly. The Tevi and 
five guns of various makes and sizes 
(Bobbie believed in being ready for 
all emergencies) went with Lusk in 
the other direction. Of their luck 
Sally told at the campfire later — 
much later. 

They did much hard travelling but 
saw nothing except a martin sitting 
in a black ball up a tree. About four 
o'clock afar off they heard shots and 
thought we must be firing, as there 
was no one else in the mountains. 

" Should judge that was about two 
ridges over, wouldn't you? Wonder 
what they have struck?" Lusk said. 
" Two shots, that will hardly be a 
a bear." 

" Now keep a sharp look out, Pet," 
Bobbie called excitedly," that may 




scare something our way. Gee, I 
would like to get a chance — just a 
chance." Poor Bobbie with his Win- 
chester, his Savage, his Mauser and 
not so much as a whisk of a tail had 
he seen. 

" Better luck to-morrow, sure to 
see 'em soon," Lusk encouraged. 

" Sh! Wasn't that something mov- 
ing on that far ridge below ? " Bobbie 
got out his glasses. "Yes, by jingo, 
it's a bear feeding on the blueberries. 
Say, that's great! Look at the way 
he stows those berries; puts his arm 
round a bush, and just shovels them 
in with his tongue," he handed the 
glasses to Sally. 

" I believe I'll try a shot, anyway — 
what do you say, Cap'n? " 

"No use, too far. We must get 
nearer. We better go down on the 
other side of the ridge and come up 
behind him, providing he don't get 
frightened and travel." 

This is Sally's excited narrative 
unadorned : 

"If I live to be a hundred and 
fifty, I shall never see a day like this 
again. You know how awfully rough 
it is getting about. It really is no 



horse country and not fit for humans 
to travel in. We left our horses 
about noon. We had been off them 
most of the time, anyway, and soon 
after we heard the shots, we saw two 
bears feeding on the mountain side 
about a mile away. In order to ap- 
proach them we had to climb back 
on the ridge we had just left. We 
had trailed for an hour — my gun 
weighed over three hundred pounds 
by then, and the thing I breathe with 
had struck work, only got a good 
breath about one in twenty — when 
we sneaked out of cover and saw that 
the bears had hardly moved. It was 
a long shot, good three hundred yards, 
but Bobbie was not doing much 
better in the way of lungs, and he 
decided to risk the shot. The bullet 
struck one of the bears, and both of 
them sought the bushes. Bobbie got 
another shot into the wounded one, 
I think, before it dropped. Of course 
we started pell mell in pursuit. We 
slipped and fell and tore our hands 
and ' barked ' our shins until we were 
about half way down the mountain 
where there was a little level place. 
That was my limit. Go further with- 




out rest, I could not. I hated dread- 
fully to be left, but of course Bobbie 
had to follow his bear and Cap'n's 
duty was with Bobbie. I couldn't 
think of letting him go alone, besides 
I could not endure the thought of 
that poor brute suffering. But when I 
saw them actually going off I found 
I had more strength than courage 
and toddled after them. Fortunately 
we found him within a hundred 
yards — and it was soon over." 

Dear, enthusiastic, kind-hearted 
Bobbie, the role of conquering hero 
suited him so well, who will begrudge 
him that one trophy, meaning as it 
did the lure by which he gained rich 
treasure of renewed health and 
energy for the affairs that make the 
world go round? 

But my tale was different and was 
not told that night. 

Till noon Nimrod and I had 
climbed skilfully, managing to keep 
in the wooded torrent courses and 
thus use the horses. But now we 
were obliged to tie them and proceed 
on foot. No more the majestic yel- 
low pine, the odorous balsam and 
spruce tempered the sun's rays. 



Again the superlative, the hottest 
noons, the coldest nights, are here. 
No more would the yew bedeck its 
lateral branches with scarlet waxen 
berries, nor some blue-eyed myrtle- 
covered mound invite repose. No 
more would the delighted eye rest 
on orange scarlet beads, set in their 
heavy, yellow-ribbed leaves, nor the 
tropical blue ball that its long point- 
ed lily leaves reveal ; the flaming rose 
hips no more, nor the elder, nor the 
Oregon grape would hang its tiny pur- 
ple clusters amid the leafy reds and 
yellows; no more the great, indigo 
fruit of the sarvis and the huckle- 
berry, no more all the colourful 
growing things. Instead are rocks, 
rocks smooth, rocks rough, rocks 
big — whole ledges and mountains of 
them — rocks small as sifted gravel, 
the track of a snow slide. 

For hours we toiled, heels often 
higher than head, until rebellion 
shrieked from every muscle. Three 
thousand feet up one obelisk, as 
many down, uncounted stretches on 
the ridges, up and down, rocks, rocks, 
not a patch of green level or large 
enough for a grave. 




Toward sundown, gasping as we 
had done many times before, we 
dropped on a far out jut ting ledge 
that split the heavens. Half of the 
whole wide earth seemed spread 
before us, valley after valley, 
range upon range waved away in 
purple shadows to the borderland 
of spirit. The mountain chill gathered 
as we looked and the warmth was 
frozen out of the sky. It was over time 
to be getting back to camp. My face 
and hands were scratched, shoes in 
ribbons, feet like boils, in fact not a 
spot worth mentioning without its 
scratch or bruise. There was small 
chance of my making camp that night 
if it had to be done on foot. This was 
not hunting. It was suicide. 

Nimrod sent Sommers after the 
horses, which he judged were not 
more than a mile away, and designated 
a spot at the foot of the ridge where 
we would wait. A stream flowed 
through it, bordered by the usual 
strip of woods and we could see dimly 
a bald place which meant a tiny 
meadow, perhaps an acre in extent. 

Sommers started off. All very well, 
but how was I to get there, or any- 




where ? The limit of endurance had 
been reached long ago. But when 
endurance gives out one still has the 
will and slowly I crawled and stum- 
bled along. There was yet plenty of 
half-light and as soon as we reached 
the timber Nimrod saw many tracks 
of wild things. He could examine 
them at his leisure, as a five minutes' 
scramble meant a ten minutes' halt 
for me. Fortunately it was down 
hill, one could slide part of the time. 
What did a bruise or two more mat- 
ter? Nimrod pointed out many rotten 
logs torn open by the paws of hungry 
black bears and grizzlies, seeking 
for their favourite summer relish, 
wood ants. He followed the fresh 
track of a mountain lion that was 
stalking a blacktail. He showed 
where the doe had stopped to feed, 
had taken alarm and bounded off. 
There were moose, lynx, yes, and 
elk and wolf tracks. This wooded, 
watered spot was evidently a favour- 
ite resort. It was uncanny in the 
deepening gloom to feel that the 
woods about were full of eyes and 
noses and claws and jaws. 

At last, after infinite weariness, 



through branches and brambles and 
logs we reached the stream. Of 
course, the little meadow of rank 
grass was on the opposite side. We 
crossed over on the rocks — more 
rocks, I had hoped to have seen the 
last of them. The inevitable slip 
occurred midstream and Nimrod 
fished me out, wet to the waist. 

It was only one thing more. He 
made a tiny fire, Indian fashion. 
"Fool white man makes heap fire 
and gets away, Indian make little 
fire, stays close," and then proposed 
that he should leave me. 

Does that strike a chill down your 
spine ? No ? Then you are not a 
woman, or have no imagination of 
how it feels to be left alone at dusk 
in the wilderness, untracked save by 
wolves and lions and bears and other 
"ravening monsters seeking whom 
they may devour." 

Sommers should have arrived long 
before, something had undoubtedly 
happened to detain him. Just then 
we heard the sound of a distant shot, 
Sommers signalling for help. Nimrod 
must go. There was no alternative. 

'T'll be back as soon as possible 



with the horses," he said. "Fire 
one shot for answer." I did so, as 
he hastily collected some sticks for 
the fire and placing them beside me, 
ran off in the direction from which 
the shot came. I could see his form, 
black in the drab light, bobbing over 
the uneven meadow and disappearing 
into the woods. He was gone — and 
gone were all things comfortable and 
understood. I was marooned in the 
unknown. Can you feel the creepi- 
ness of it ? 

Nimrod had cleared a six-foot space 
in the tall marsh grass. I could not 
see above it as I crouched beside the 
fire that gave forth scarcely notice- 
able light or smoke — or heat either. 
How chilly it grew, how dark, how 
awfully silent! It was the silence of 
the tomb and I was afraid, exquisitely 
afraid, of — nothing. 

But my imagination soon found 
plenty of food. Sommers had been 
thrown and injured. Nimrod would 
never find him or he would break 
a leg in the dark and perish miserably 
from exposure. I would never see 
him again or any one. Some day 
strangers would find my bones and 




identify me by a hat pin, no, my 
belt-buckle, unless the packrats 
carried it off. Here I would lie as 
uncounted as the salmon skeletons 
that strewed the bank, worthless re- 
mains of a bears' banquet. 

I put a stick in the fire. It re- 
verberated to China. I knew then 
the stillness and greyness that was 
before the Creation. I had lived cycles 
since Nimrod left, taking reality 
with him. 

I started up, anything would be 
better than this. It was worse stand- 
ing. I crouched again for a few more 
aeons, straining every nerve to hear 
some sound of returning humanity. 
I could have heard a hair drop; then 
I did hear a sound as of a low body 
going through the grass, not twenty 
feet away. I froze with a vast new 
kind of terror, but it was a better 
brand than the last. Here at least 
might be action, and it was real, un- 
mistakable. There again that low 
rustle coming. A mountain lion! 

A twig snapped. No, it made too 
much noise, a faint swish, a very 
faint thud, thud, it had passed m.e 
and was going to the water. I heard 



'391 



it pause and then the sound of an 
animal drinking. It was certainly a 
bear, nothing else makes so much 
noise. 

I stood up, and not forty feet 
away was a Grizzly, his back to- 
ward me. He looked as big as an 
ox. My eyes, accustomed to the 
twilight, took in every detail — the 
gleam of his eye as his head turned, 
the slobber, slobber of his jaws as his 
deft paw raked into them some 
blueberries from the bank. 

I do not know how long I stood 
there staring at him, absolutely 
motionless, but I know how a prisoner 
feels when waiting for the hangman. 
Then I began to think again. 

Here was the chance to distinguish 
myself. Never was a stage set more 
dramatically. How the glory of it 
would ring down through the family 
annals, unaided, hand to hand, so 
to speak, encounter of a monster and 
the wonderful heroismof the woman, 
etc. Could I do it ? for the sake of my 
descendants. I must try. My nerves 
were twitching like a frog's when 
the electrical current is turned on. 
Hardly able to control them enough, 




I reached cautiously for the gun, 
raised it as best I could — how the 
thing wabbled and danced and 
circled. 

The long day's strain had told, but, 
with a final supreme effort of will, I 
got it to my shoulder and fired. 
Then shut my eyes for an instant 
expecting the creature to seize me 
and devour. 

Nothing happened ! I do not 
believe I aimed, I never knew. 
The bear turned and started back 
toward me the way he had come, 
evidently on a runway, he looked as 
big as an elephant; already another 
cartridge was jerked in. I was calm 
now, I had done it and must fight. 
If he were wounded I knew there 
would be no quarter. I had the gun 
at shoulder and then for the first 
time the creature, who was now a 
mastodon, saw me. Its little e3^es 
glared straight at me. I shall never 
forget them, and there we stood, 
transfixed. 

For the fraction of a second he 
debated what to do and then turned 
slowly away. Now was the moment. 
There would have been no miss this 




I LOWERED THE GUN AND LET HIM GO 



143 



time. A hunter knows when he will 
shoot true. I sighted along the 
barrel, a clear shot to the brain — it 
was so close — my finger on the 
trigger! Then I lowered the muzzle 
to the ground — and let him go. He 
had refused to injure me! Could I 
do less ? 

I watched him going off in the 
woods and sat down again amid the 
silence and the bears. 

My one shot soon brought an an- 
swer, quite close, and had been most 
fortunate, for in the dark Nimrod had 
somewhat strayed. He found Som- 
mers in a plight with three horses 
in a bog. At ten o'clock we got to 
camp — ^what few shreds were left 
of us — and heard the triumphant 
tale of the Tevi. 

Bear and forbear; water and oil. 
Clearly, my story could not then 
be told. 




WHAT I KNOW ABOUT MOUNTAIN 
GOATS — BOBBIE'S STORY 




F Dante had ever hunted 
mountain goats, the 
world would have been 
richer by another canto 
of the Inferno. What 
an opportunity lost for 
those humorous gentlemen of the 
Inquisition and the Star Chamber: 
But this is the age of discovery. 

No golden depas, alas! stood ready 
to offer libations to the victory- 
crowned when after the hardest 
hunt that imagination can picture, 
we returned to camp empty-handed; 
yet were we satisfied. Goats we 



had seen, yes, three, and one we 
actually handled. This at least has 
the merit of orginality. I like to 
think of it. Instead of taking, we 
gave life and received the usual 
benefactor's reward. It happened 
this way: 

For two nights Nimrod and I 
with Sommers had made a temporary 
camp in goat country. The wind 
blew, the snow descended, the streams 
glazed over, we fed on bacon and 
camp "sinkers" and had only a six- 
foot lean-to tent, eked out by boughs, 
to cover our beds. We had left 
everything in the main camp that 
we could possibly do without. Con- 
ditions could hardly be described 
as comfortable. I had thought rocks 
in themselves were bad enough, but 
ice-covered rocks — well, never mind. 

The first night we lingered around 
the blessed fire, dreading the plunge 
into arctic darkness where our snow- 
covered beds gave chill greeting. 
The wind had changed after the 
lean-to was set up and before its 
tricks were discovered had sent the 
prying snow into every corner of 
our shelter. 



147 



Nimrod was discoursing learnedly 
upon the animal whose tracks we 
had seen that day. I like to get 
my Natural History by object les- 
sons, when in Goat-land learn about 
goats. 

"The Oreamnos montanus harms 
no one. He is a browser, and finds 
his food chiefly in the buds and 
twigs of the trees that creep up to 
his fastnesses. Such patches of for- 
est like this are all through his 
range and it's here that you'll find 
him, between the timber line and 
the snowfields, which are his water 
supply." Nimrod tilted his hat still 
further on one side to shield his face 
from the driving snow. 

"The goat clings to his habitat, 
and he is not a very migratory ani- 
mal. The individual range is rather 
small if food and water be obtainable 
and no alarming smells assail his 
guide; but they sometimes swim 
rivers, and a salt lick is a delicacy 
for which they will risk a short 
sally from their fortress homes. You 
do not know of any about here, do 
you, Snmmers?" 

Sommers shook his head. 



**Do goats ever make mistakes ?" 
I asked. 

" I suppose so. He thrives among 
cliffs that to us are impassable and 
his strength is wonderful, but I 
fancy now and then one gets in 
a tight place from which there is 
no retreat, and there must be 
accidents. They have a habit of 
grazing on the mountain sides where 
the grass first appears, the only 
grazing they do, beyond nibbling 
on small plants, and this habit 
perhaps is the cause of more mortal- 
ity than any other, as many are 
killed each spring by snowslides." 

' ' I once saw a goat that had made 
a mistake," said Sommers in his 
slow drawl, following up Nimrod's 
bait. He threw a stick of wood on 
the fire while we waited. 

"They are so plumb sure of them- 
selves, they go anywhere. This one 
had walked out on a pine tree stuck 
out from a cliff like that" (holding 
a forefinger out level from his 
hand). "The trunk was covered 
with snow and patches of ice and 
at the far end hung some moss. 
He went out all right to get it, but 




going back was not so easy, even 
for a Billy; he slipped and got 
caught in a crotch and that's where 
I found him stuck fast and frozen, 
perhaps a month after. 

"But it ain't usual. You can't 
never hurry a goat; you can pepper 
the ground about with shot, you 
can yell even, but 3^ou can't make 
him go faster than is safe. He puts 
every foot where it ought to go." 

That night I dreamed of the goat 
that had made a mistake, suspended 
in mid-air, starving and freezing 
to death; and the next day we found 
another foolish goat. But it was 
a young one, and youth is the age 
for error. 

About noon we came to a stretch 
of glare ice, over which we were 
proceeding with great caution, Som- 
mers in the lead testing carefully, 
for death lays its traps here in the 
shape of pits where the snow has 
melted, but the thin, surface cover- 
ing remains, presenting to the careless 
foot as solid a surface as the ad- 
jacent rock. We were crawling 
along this when a certain sound 
instantly stopped our progress. It 



y^i 




was a faint bleat, 
goat. 

We soon discovered that a kid of 
the year had fallen prisoner into one 
of these pits. How long ago we could 
not tell, but it was still alive. We 
set about effecting a rescue. Som- 
mers cautiousl}'' lowered himself into 
the basin, whereupon that ungrate- 
ful Billy chased him all around the 
hole, doing as much damage to shins 
and temper as his strength would 
permit until Sommers, using his belt 
as a collar, hauled the kicking, strug- 
gling beast to the edge where Nimrod 
was waiting to assist in getting him 
up. Never was a rescue more un- 
poetically performed and when in 
spite of himself the goat was landed 
safely on top, he returned thanks 
by drawing off and making so vicious 
a charge, his head with its little 
nubbins of horns well down, that 
Nimrod was knocked completely off 
his feet, and having thus laid low 
his benefactor the vindictive one 
took himself off over the ice with 
astonishing rapidity. 

Watching his easy progress I 
wished for some of the rubber corns 




THAT UNGRATEFUL BILLY STRAIGHTWAY MADE A VICIOUS 
CHARGE AT HIS BENEFACTOR 



with which his feet are provided, 
for mine showed a determined pro- 
pensity to seek the dull grey 
sky. 

Enough is as good as more, some- 
times much better. We struck out 
for the main camp next day, not 
loth to leave to the mountain goats, 
to the Excelsior youth, or any one 
else, this region of "snow and 
ice." 

Again we found the sun, the 
huckleberries, camp comforts and 
Sally Tevis, all very delightful; 
and about midnight, appeared 
a human wreck that had to 
be pulled off its horse and 
assisted to the fire — Bobbie Te- 
vis, bursting with the story of 
"his goat." 

It took us far into the night to get 
it all, but what matter? Even then 
it was much easier told than done. 
Bobbie plunged into his narrative 
as soon as hot coffee had thawed 
his tongue. 

* ' As you know, children, I desired 
goat more than righteousness; Sally 
was knocked out." 

That lady interrupted: 




"I wish I were a Mountain Goat, 
I'd drink the glorious view; 
And gladly skip from jag to jag; 
Would you? would you?" 

Humming the paraphrase before she 
could be suppressed. Sally had 
chosen to be flippant over goat, 
and for once had insisted upon re- 
maining in the main camp. 

"Cap'n and I started yesterday 
at daybreak, expecting to be back 
last night. I knew Pet would be 
all right during the day, with Charley 
to look after her. After riding sev- 
eral hours we left our horses picketed 
in a meadow and proceeded on foot 
with a light back pack. If one could 
only hunt goats on a horse! Well, 
we had climbed and slipped and 
stumbled over boulders, up preci- 
pices and slide rocks all day. I 
think I had never known anything 
like the ache of bones and general 
exhaustion, feet giving out, skin off 
the heels, left one crushed by a 
falling rock. The altitude bothered 
immensely, could hardly breathe go- 
ing up hill, and it was all up or down, 
principally up — all this and not a 
sight of game. We had followed 



the track of a big Billy only to have 
it apparently fall off the cliff; you 
know a goat would rather walk on 
the under side of a ledge any day. 

"Cap'n wanted to make a detour 
of a half mile and come up under 
the cliff. It sounds easy but it 
would have taken us at least two 
hours to do it and hard work at 
every step, jumping from rock to 
rock, crawling along narrow ledges 
and dropping to the next below. 
A slip may mean a broken leg or 
worse; it's no place for clumsy, two- 
legged creatures, and — I was so 
tired, even then in the middle of 
the afternoon, that nothing but pride 
kept me from dropping in my tracks. 
Cap'n was done up too, I know, 
because whenever I called a halt 
for a few minutes to get wind he 
sat down — never knew him to do that 
before when on the trail. I believe 
he is like a horse, can go to sleep 
standing, and once he slipped out 
of his pack. 

"Well, chance favoured us. We 
had not dragged ourselves along the 
ridge two hundred yards when I 
spied another track and we both 



decided that the same Billy had 
made it, and a big fellow he must 
be. We worked on that trail for 
hours until it got too dark and I 
could not have gone another step 
anyway. To get back to camp was 
beyond me. There was not a sin- 
gle foot of level ground, to say 
nothing about a place big enough 
for a bed. It was very chilly way 
up there; we had only a blanket 
apiece. There seemed small pros- 
pects of fire and less of getting 
water, we were practically beyond 
timber line and streamland. I con- 
fess little Bobbie dropped in a heap 
too miserable to care, but one can't 
slump altogether, so in a few minutes 
opening my eyes I saw that Lusk had 
disappeared. Also in the dark I 
could make out the scraggly outlines 
of a scrub oak. Hobbling over to it 
I managed to break off some dead 
branches and started a tiny fire. 
How that living thing puts heart into 
one! Warmth, food and water, are all 
one really needs in this world for 
happiness — at times." Bobbie cor- 
rected himself hastily. 

"I made sure that the tree was 



firmly rooted, then sitting on the 
up-side I wrapped my legs around 
it and leaned back against a rock 
and tried to imagine being in a 
place from which I could not fall 
and where there was not constant 
danger from sliding rocks. The goat 
is a very slow moving animal and 
its protection is living in a region 
where no other four-foot wants to go, 
and as for two-foots, there are much 
easier ways of committing suicide." 
His eyes twinkled for an instant. 
"I don't know how long it was 
that I clung there with the sensation 
of being suspended in mid-air and 
only half aware of the surroundings, 
when I heard muffled noises, the slight 
clicking of one rock with another. 

"What could it be? A goat cer- 
tainly would not approach that fire, 
tiny as it was. It was just possible 
for a mountain lion to have strayed 
up so high. It might come near 
to the fire but it would not be so 
clumsy. Why, the Cap'n of course. 
My wits were so befogged that I had 
forgotten that there was any other 
human being in the world. 

"He came very slowly, jumping 




I5S 



from rock to rock and trying to 
carry steadily the coffee pot, nearly 
full of melting snow. He put it on 
the fire and coaxed a blaze suffi- 
ciently to make coffee. The gift 
of David would not enable me to 
sing the adequate praise for that 
cheering cup. I stopped seeing things 
and began to feel real again. My 
crushed foot was bad, and tired — 
let that pass. 

"The night was very cold. We 
had not covering enough for two, 
so we took turns sleeping and in 
feeding the fire. Cap'n found a 
dead tree near, which by careful 
management provided us with fuel. 
There was not level space enough 
to lie down in comfort without 
levelling the rocks. I was awfully- 
worried about leaving the little girl 
but could not help it. At daylight 
when I attempted to rise, I really 
thought something was permanently 
wrong — never felt so queer in all 
m}^ life, as though the whole ma- 
chinery of the body was trying to 
run without oil, everything rubbed 
and grated together horribly, frozen 
and famished to boot. Lusk was 



159 



done up too. In this cheerful state 
we started the day's hunt. I did 
not care if I never saw a goat. In 
fact, I preferred not to see one. I 
hated the thought of it, but still 
since I was up in that rocky in- 
ferno to get a goat, I knew I 
had better finish up the business as 
I never wanted to do it again. So 
we staggered along to a little draw 
where we hoped to find water. On 
a spur in plain view was a big 
Billy. Cap'n said he was as big 
a one as he had ever seen, or that's 
what he meant. I believe what he 
said was a 'Whanger.' 

"It was half a mile, but I did not 
see how I was ever going to reach 
him, so I wanted to try a shot any- 
way. But Cap'n wouldn't have it. 
"You know how the mountains 
weather, there is the main ridge with 
smaller spurs shooting from it and 
a draw or gully between each spur. 
Well, this chap was on the second 
spur from us, at least two hours' 
work to get within gun range, pro- 
viding he would stay there. Dog- 
gedly I followed Cap'n over the 
rocks and around the boulders and 




up a nasty place where the rocks 
had split leaving a crack about two 
feet wide. A dead tree had gotten 
jammed into it upside down, and 
up this tree with the branches all 
going the wrong way, we crawled. 
It was as slippery as glass and the 
sharp branches jagged. A misstep 
would have sent us down into — 
well, I did not care to examine 
where. When we got up to the 
top — I had to pass up my rifle and 
pack, before I could manage it — 
we found ourselves at the head of 
a draw in a clump of trees, near a 
tiny stream. It was what the Cap'n 
had been looking for ever since day- 
break, but he's such a mute some- 
times, he gave me no hint. 

We had breakfast and lay there 
for two hours. The sun grew 
stronger, the whole world changed 
to radiance and beauty. I moved 
from the fire and stretched out in 
the full glare of the sun, comfort- 
ably cooking, and feeling a delicious 
sense of rest. We stayed till eleven 
o'clock, when Lusk, who had climbed 
up a cliff to look around, motioned 
me to come. Being once more cap- 



[6i 




able, I sprang up and laboriously 
joined him. There was that Billy 
waiting for us — had not moved an 
inch apparently. A goat's vision 
is not extra good, he depends upon l«a A i S 
his nose, and the wind was blowing 8Bfc g ^ ^ 
toward us. By reaching the next 
spur he would be within range. 
Hastening as much as possible, jump- 
ing from rock to rock, going up the 
face of a cliff that was almost straight 
up — could never have done it if I 
had given myself time to think — 
in about half an hour we crawled 
out on a ledge with only a draw of 
slide rock between us and the spur 
opposite where we had seen the 
goat. As we peered cautiously from 
behind a boulder, Cap'n suddenly 
pressed my head down out of sight. 
A little annoyed at this summary 
treatment I started to speak. He 
held up a finger warningly: 

"'Lion' he whispered. Now if 
there is anything I wanted more 
than a goat it was a mountain lion. 
Greatly puzzled at the change of 
quarry I sneaked after Lusk. Every 
move now was as cautious and 
noiseless as we could make it. The 




style of hunting was entirely changed. 
The puma has all his senses with him 
ready for business. At last stretched 
flat behind a rock I peeped over, 
and there within seventy-five yards 
of me, broadside on, a splendid shot, 
stood a magnificent tawny creature, 
with a big tail swaying from side to 
side. I could see the yellow gleam 
of his eye and I shall never forget 
that tail! He had been lying down, 
perhaps asleep on the sunny ledge 
and just at that instant had gotten 
up. He was not alarmed. Quickly 
I ducked down and raised my rifle 
over the rock and sighted along the 
barrel. Now what do you suppose 
happened?" 

Bobbie's face was grim at the 
recollection and his eyes looked out 
reproachfully. "In that fraction of 
time the lion had moved two or 
three paces — and his head and shoul- 
ders were hidden behind a tree, 
just the tip of his nose was visible 
to the right of the tree. I stayed my 
finger on the trigger a second so as 
to let the shoulder be exposed agam, 
when that cussed puma turned at 
right angles and by the meanest 



trick ever played, kept himseK com- 
pletely covered by that tree, you 
know they are awfully thin edge on, 
until he entered a clump of bushes 
fifty feet away, and all that I ever 
saw of him was a yellow tail swaying 
from right to left of that tree. Oh, 
that mocking, tantalising tail! 

Children! Can you imagine my 
feelings? I believe I would have 
fired into that tree if Lusk had not 
brought me to my senses. * No ! 
scare everything.'" 

"That was hard luck," we all 
chorused. Bobbie squared his shoul- 
ders and went on — 

' * I looked for the goat. Of course, 
it was gone too. We started to get 
across the slide in pursuit. It was 
awfully loose; wouldn't hold at all. 
Down, down we slipped, with an awful 
rattle of falling stones below, and 
above came pelting a regular land- 
slide, and we in the middle of it. 
When we finally brought up, we 
were a quarter of a mile below the 
goat spur. We had missed it alto- 
gether, way above us, and I was 
thankful not to go pounding down 
to the chasm below, with many of 



the rocks we had dislodged. Hugging 
a friendly tree I decided again I had 
enough of goat. About the lion I 
would not even think. Evidently 
the Angel of the Wild Things was 
having a busy day. The competi- 
tion was too great. Lusk had picked 
himself up and was scanning the 
country with a glass. 

"Goat" — he said, handing me the 
glasses and motioning upward. I 
could have thrown them at him, 
but, of course, looked, and there 
was that old goat strolling around 
the other side of the spur. I picked 
up my gun. Climb that mountain 
I would not. It was over two hun- 
dred yards in a straight line, but I 
would have a shot at least. Without 
moving, one leg gripped around a 
sapling, I took free-hand aim and 
fired. The creature jimiped and lay 
down. It was no use trying again, 
couldn't see him. Cap'n started up 
the base of the next spur which was 
quite close. I let him go alone, not 
even then would I follow. In about 
half an hour I saw him waving his 
anns wildly for me to come. Having 
gotten my wind, I lashed my flicker- 




ing enthusiasm and toiled up a 
wooded spur, on my head half the 
time. 

' ' Well, I finished the goat. " Bob- 
bie glanced down for a moment. 
" I'll spare you the details, but when 
he lay down finally, his precious 
head was hanging over the cliff. If 
he fell it would be smashed to bits. 
When we got to him he was too 
heavy for us to move — an enormous 
fellow. I tied my belt around his 
hind leg and secured it to a sapling. 
We had an awful time skinning out 
the head and separating it from the 
body; our strength was spent; but 
we managed it at last, and just in 
time, for as we pulled it to a safe 
place, the sapling gave way. 

'"Look out!' Cap'n yelled, and I 
dodged as the carcass, belt, tree and 
all, went slipping over the edge, 
struck about a hundred feet below 
and went, rolling, plunging, masses 
of flying rock with it, down — ^nearly 
a mile below, and when we got to 
it at sunset, I doubt if there was 
a whole bone in its body. It was 
dark when we staggered to the 
meadow two or three miles farther 



t^ 



on, where we had picketed our 
horses yesterday. 

"I don't know how I ever sat 
that horse, and this foot will lay 
me up for a while, but look, Petty, 
isn't that a head? Bet it is a record 
breaker!" 

Alas! Even as 
he sighed — poor 
another victim of the unattainable. 

"I wonder," he said, "if, when I 
look at it, I shall always see the 
waving of that yellow tail from side 
to side behind a tree — the puma 
that I did not get!" 



Bobbie enthused, 
human Tevis — 




A JACK RABBIT DANCE AND 
FANTAIL GHOST 



THE 




UNNING through the 
whole of our trip, as 
silver in a brocade,were 
allusions to the " f ant ail ' ' 
— a small deer of quite 
distinct species. Nim- 
rod, the scientist, pricked up his ears 
at each hint. 

* ' It has not been conclusively 
proven that the "fantail" exists. 
Hunters' stories affirm it. An isolated 
bone or two, but never a complete 
skeleton, has been produced. The 
fragments I have seen might have 




been the young of black- or white- 
tail." 

Preserving an open mind he took 
copious notes from Cap'n and 
Sommers. 

"I ain't never killed one," con- 
fessed Cap'n," but they are sure here, 
seen their tracks often. It's narrower 
than a fawn. Once I followed one 
and came on it in the dusk, about 
the size of a greyhound, only shorter 
of course, a full grown adult with 
small horns. No, it was not a fawn, 
too clean limbed and tight made — " 
and so on. 

Nimrod put it all down in his 
journal. "Perhaps," he said: and 
travelled miles to see a track the 
Captain assured him was "fantail." 

"It may be," he announced, after 
measuring it carefully fore and aft and 
amidships and taking its photograph. 
"How I would like to be sure! A 
good specimen settling the matter 
would be worth while." His scien- 
tific acquisitiveness was fully aroused. 

One morning we started, as we had 
daily, to hunt for what we could find. 
Nimrod read many tales of the wild 
for me. Elk had bedded here last 




night, a bear had rubbed the bark 
off that tree, scratching his back, a 
close inspection disclosed some hairs 
sticking to it; black bear, brown or 
grizzly, small or large, which way 
going, all this he knew at a glance, 
arriving at the result by knowledge 
and deduction. 

At last on a sun-baked hillside we 
dropped to rest in a huckleberry 
patch, wonderful child of a forest 
fire. Never in the hot-houses of 
Midas have I seen such berries as 
nature provides here for the taking. 
Acres of huckleberries as big as one's 
thumb, juicy and sweet, hanging 
in luscious luxuriance, sharp con- 
trast to the spiny manzanita and 
rocky arid stretches. While they last 
the bears gorge themselves, and we 
gorged ourselves without the effort 
even of rising. To be Irish — al- 
though we were lying down, we were 
practically sitting up, the hillside was 
so steep. I felt like the lazy man of 
Bagdad who reclined under a fig tree, 
all his life, nourished by the fruit that 
dropped into his mouth. 

Nimrod's keen eye was scanning 
an opposite ridge not two hundred 




yards away. The ridges follow one 
another like the teeth of a comb and 
relatively as close. Suddenly he 
grabbed his field glasses and gazed 
excitedly. 

"Look, what do you see there? 
There, beside that stump," locating 
the spot with the glasses. I saw 
a small deer, partly hidden by bushes. 

"Fantail?" I whispered breath- 
lessly, knowing what it would mean 
to Nimrod if he could really see one. 
But even as I said it, came a dis- 
gusted "pshaw," from him as the 
cause came into view around a 
boulder, a black tail doe. The little 
one sprang up and joined his mother, 
followed by a second fawn. It was a 
pretty sight to see them moving 
leisurely along unalarmed, the wind 
was blowing toward us. With ear 
and tail and leg lazily they fought 
the deer flies. Undoubtedly the 
mother was making for some spot 
she knew, some sylvan draw in which 
to pass the heated midday hours. 
In time the family group drifted out 
of sight over the ridge into a spot I 
was to know. 

Then was enacted a drama of the 




A TAWNY SHADOW CLOSE AGAINST THE RED EARTH 



^n\ 



mountains that is rarely seen, even 
by old guides, and as events proved, 
we were by no means the passive 
spectators we thought. Lying 
supinely on a hillside seems a good 
way to avoid incident, but if you had 
seen what we did, you would have 
done what we did, doubtless, with 
consequences as far reaching. 

Perhaps the sun had climbed to- 
ward noon long enough for the 
millions of time tellers to have ticked 
off the quarter-hour when on the same 
hillside opposite, a tawny shadow 
close against the red earth moved 
swiftly, nose to the ground. We never 
stirred, the gun and the camera re- 
mained undisturbed, so absorbed were 
we watching that incarnate death 
tracking its prey. I had never seen a 
puma in broad daylight outside of 
a cage, and now as that great cat 
stealthity crawled along, disappearing 
in the berry patches, and out again, 
I thrilled with the by-gone delightful 
horror of "Arabian Nights!" 

"He is following the blacktail 
trail," Nimrod whispered. " It is late 
in the day for him to be hunting." 
Cautiously we sat up among the 




'74 



bushes, never taking eyes off that 
swiftly sneaking fonn, that wove 
back and forth. It paused where 
the fawns had joined on and then 
followed faster than before; soon it 
was over the ridge. 

"Will he catch her?" I asked, 
jumping up. 

"Not likely, but they do some- 
times," was the answer as with one 
accord we started to follow. It meant 
a hard scramble to get over there and 
we had not gone far when the doe 
came running back over the ridge. 
Evidently frightened by the lion, she 
had hidden her young and was lead- 
ing him away from them as well as 
trying to save herself. 

Alas! she saw us now in full view, 
and turned her course. She did not 
know that we could be trusted. 
She lost ground by it and I thought 
I got one glimpse of a yellow pursuer 
drawing near. Hurry as fast as we 
could, it was nearly half an hour 
before we got to the place where the 
blacktail had turned and the lion 
track showed, not on the trail, but 
running alongside. We followed some 
distance. It had been a successful 



hunt for the tawny one, and we found 
the poor quarry in its death agony. 
The Hon of course had removed him- 
self at our approach. He could af- 
ford to leave the meal, it would wait 
for him. It was but humane to put 
a bullet where it would speed oblivion 
to the cruelly wounded deer. That 
bullet of mercy, mark it well, we had 
trouble enough with it and with 
another. It would seem that 
innocence and good intentions must 
be protected, but vice, expecting 
punishment, takes care of its own. 

We searched long for the little 
blacktail, but they were successfully 
hidden. Nimrod calmed my distress 
for their motherless, unprotected 
condition by saying that they were 
big enough to be weaned and there 
was a good chance of them being able 
to feed themselves if the Angel of 
the Wild Things would protect them 
from enemies. I knew that a very 
young fawn would probably starve to 
death on the spot where it dropped, 
when the mother gave the signal to 
freeze — ^waiting, waiting for its pro- 
tector's little grunt of release. 

On the way back to camp Nimrod 



176^ 



Spied a bab}^ rabbit trying to hide. 
He was such a dear Httle fellow that 
Nimrod, wishing to have him pose 
for a picture, dexterously dropped 
a hat over him, and in order not to 
hurt his model, replaced the hat with 
the bunny inside, and for several 
hours that astonished rabbit 
travelled in safety on the top of a 
curly head. He was then put on the 
ground by the side of our tent with 
the lid of a 'telescope' over him. He 
had plenty of air and grass to feed 
on till morning. 

The Tevi crawled back in time for 
dinner. "Worn to a frazzle" was 
Sally's comment. 

To one who has never answered 
the call of the Red Gods, how can 
the all-pervading friendliness of the 
camp fire be described? It is inti- 
mate, it is mystical, it is soul- 
enveloping; or it is merely cheering, 
according to one's mood. It can be 
perverse and disagreeable, but it is 
always necessary, the very heart of 
camp life. Perhaps we all were fire 
worshippers once. I love it best as 
the comfortable open-house friend 
between dinner and bed. Then 



stories float over it, even as mist 
on the meadows. It is the birth- 
place of fancy, the cradle of memory. 

A comfortable group was revealed 
by its glow this night. 

Drawn on by deft questions from 
Nimrod the Cap'n was spinning one 
of his yarns about the mysterious 
"fantail." Bobbie was cleaning a 
gun, Sally curled up near him on a 
rug like a contented kitten. Sommers 
sat on his feet, whittling a stick. 

' ' If you once caught sight of its 
tail, you'd know — the critter spreads 
it out wide like — " the Cap'n stopped 
as a sound, curious yet quite audible, 
broke in upon his speech. 

We all sat still listening. Thump — 
thump — silence. Then thump — 
thump — . It had a hollow metallic 
sound, unusual for the woods. What 
could it be ? Light broke across Nim- 
rod's face. He began to laugh, silent- 
ly. "It's that baby rabbit I got on 
the trail to-day," he said softly, so as 
not to disturb the noise-maker. 

The 'telescope,' a good-sized case 
for carrying clothes, was made of 
leatheroid, and acted as a sounding 
board. "If there are any rabbits 




within hearing they will come. The 
little fellow is thumping for them. 
It's the rabbit way of calling for 
help," said Nimrod. "There, did you 
see that? Keep quiet, and don't 
move." 

A big rabbit had dashed within 
the circle of the fire-light and dis- 
appeared into the darkness. In a 
few minutes another flitted in and 
out of sight, another and another, 
thump — thump — could be heard 
from different parts of the forest. 

"They are gathering," Nimrod 
whispered, "must be a dozen at 
least." 

Bobbie went into his tent and 
came out with a lighted acetylene 
lantern. With this he advanced into 
the forest cautiously, the lantern 
casting a long cone of light as he 
turned it slowly, searching. The 
sounds ceased. He sat down on a 
root. We all quietly joined him. 

The rabbits, startled at first by the 
strange light, were quiet, also watch- 
ing. Then one bold chap, moved by 
curiosity, hopped cautiously near; 
others followed. No harm resulting, 
he advanced still nearer, and leaped 




HIPPITY HOP, AROUND AND AROUND 




across the patch of lighted ground. 
One, a dozen rabbits, big and little, 
followed him. Circling, he came back 
again and again, each time nearer to 
the queer little sun. What he did 
others did, in augmenting numbers 
until we counted twenty playing the 
game of "Follow the Leader." It 
was a weird sight — a Rabbit Shadow 
Dance. Hop hop, hippity, hop, back- 
wards and forth and around went 
the shadows — a fairy scene. Nimrod 
slipped away to get his camera. 
The rabbits hardly noticed him, so 
interested were they in their game. 

In every group there is always a 
foolhardy one and curiosity is a 
strong motive power, even in 
rabbits. One little fellow began to 
examine the camera and actually 
sat on top as though it were a stump. 
Bobbie could not resist putting out 
his hand and seizing the rabbit by 
the ears. It set up a sharp squealing. 
At the same moment a venturesome 
Jack came so close to the lamp in his 
investigations that he burned his nose 
and sprang back. 

Instantly every rabbit disappeared. 
Warned of the danger by their 



companion's squeals, their former 
fears returned. Bobbie, seeing his 
mistake, had at once released the 
captive, but the woods remained as 
silent as a theatre after the show is 
over. For long we sat quiet hoping 
for a return of our entertainers, but 
the charm was broken, the lamp died 
out, and again only the noisy silence, 
the starlit darkness, the camp-fire 
message. 

The next morning we made an 
early start, animated by the Cap'n's 
assurance that he might show us 
"fantail," as he had "seen fresh 
tracks" the night before. Also he 
promised that I could ride all the way ; 
my lion-blacktail pursuit had made 
this imperative. 

Oh, land of steeps and rocks, many 
a sacrifice of aches and pains you 
have accepted from me! But to- 
day it offered one of its caresses, 
and like all things beautiful and 
rare, it bestowed its blessing upon 
us in full measure. Blithely, in the 
crisp fragrant air of early sunlight, 
we followed a well-defined game trail 
bordering leisurely a tumbling in- 
consequent rill that drew its life from 




ONE ACTUALLY SAT ON TOP OF THE CAMERA 



^85 ( 



this wooded ravine. Once we floun- 
dered in a willow bog; but it was a 
passing frown not indicative of tem- 
per. Already the way was smiling, 
masses of flaming Indian cup, and the 
fairy blue bell, the aristocratic lupin 
in full lilac bloom, and wealth of 
feathery grasses for the open glades, 
while in the leafy gloom was spread 
a carpet of pine needles on which 
the willing partridge vine had woven 
a pattern of shining green, pailletted 
with coral, and strange coloured 
beads on brilliant red and purple 
stems welcomed our passing. 

Three miles of this when the Cap'n 
made a signal to dismount. I looked 
disapproving surprise which brought 
in response a hitch of the shoulder, 
a jerk of the head, which indicated 
that it was not far to walk. Silently 
he tied the horses and made his way, 
through a thicket, with elaborate care 
to avoid noise, I followed, hardly 
breathing, and Nimrod brought up as 
rear guard. His eyes had unusual 
brightness. Perhaps he was on the 
edge of solving a long dispute be- 
tween hunters and scientists. It was 
understood that if possible I was to 



i86 




secure a specimen of "fantail," a 
proper sacrifice for the advancement 
of knowledge. 

After infinite precaution, wriggling 
past branches, avoiding a step on 
twig, dead leaf or any noise maker, 
we arrived at a spot that is deep 
graven in my memory. It was a 
small open basin, perhaps a hundred 
yards in diameter, surrounded by a 
ring of dense second-growth saplings. 
The marks of a forest fire were every- 
where present in the charred sticks 
heaped one on the other, making 
travel through it impossible, com- 
bined as it was, with tall marsh grass 
and bog foundation. The tree circle 
was interrupted only at the spot, 
where we were. Here was salt lick, a 
forty-foot patch of ground where the 
earth was mixed with strong alkali. 
These are not uncommon in the 
mountains and invariably are the 
resorts of animals when instinct sends 
them seeking for salines. A game 
trail led through this one and many 
tracks showed its popularity. 

The Cap'n with a dramatic gesture 
pointed to the ground and Nimrod 
was on his knees at once examining 



a dainty deer track. It was fresh, 
not more than two hours old, 
and there were staler tracks of the 
same animal, probably made yester- 
day, showing that it was staying 
in this locality. 

Nimrod was full of suppressed ex- 
citement. My lips formed the magic 
word — "fantail?" and the answering 
nod expressed — "I really begin to 
think so!" 

Then he pointed to another set of 
tracks, a little smaller, of same type 
and wrote on his note book for me to 
see, "May be buck and doe." 

To tra-ck them was out of the 
question, I was too lame, so making 
ourselves as comfortable as possible 
we prepared to wait for the return 
of the track-makers. They would al- 
most surely come back, but possibly 
not for several hours, toward evening. 
The Cap'n went back to the horses, 
for the cold lunch provided against 
such a contingency, and Nimrod 
explored the adjacent woods, always 
silently and within sight. 

In the woods there are no electric 
bells with someone at the other end 
in case of emergency, and as you 




1 88 



know if you have read these confes- 
sions, I would rather face a bear any 
day than be left alone. 

It was a sweet time; this still 
hunting was agreeably restful. Idly, 
I reclined on the top of some thick 
bushes, an old trick as the ground 
gets uncomfortably hard. The bush 
gives somewhat and one has a springy 
seat. Sage brush makes an ideal 
sofa, but this stunted willow was not 
bad. The hours wore on. Nimrod 
ceased exploring and took to scrib- 
bling. His efforts enriched the pres- 
ent for me at least : 

A SONG OF THE WEST 

"A meadow lark sang as the sun went 
down, 

He sang in the dying glow, 
He stirred up my heart with his artless art 

And his song of the long ago. 

"He sang me a song of the West, the 
West, 
He set all my feelings aglow, 
He brought back the days of my youth 
with his song — 
His song of the long ago. 

"A coyote howled when the night was gone, 
A voice on the wind from the East; 



My horse turned his head from the place 
where he fed, 
He heard but a hated beast. 

But he sang me a song of the West, 
the West, etc. 




"A Sioux in his tepee away in the night 
Drummed a chant of the 'Buffalo days' 

Till the men with me swore at the savage 
uproar 
And cursed him, his drum and his race. 

But he sang me a song of the West, 
the West, etc. 

"The moon in the morn was still in the sky 
But the mountains in day were aglow, 

And the girl by my side, the blue-eyed, my 
bride. 
Sang, but not of the long ago. 

"She sang me a song of the West, the West, 
Swept sorrow and worry away; 

She stirred up my heart with her tuneful 
art 
And her song of the strong to-day." 

Perhaps for a moment we may 
have forgotten the "fantail," but the 
Cap'n had not. His whole attitude 
stiffened in attention and so did ours. 
I could not hear nor see a thing new, 
but Nimrod evidently did. His breath 
was coming fast and my heart began 
to thump to suffocation. It must be 



"fan tail" and I would have to shoot. 
On me depended the solution of the 
"fantail" puzzle. 

The Cap'n passed over the gun 
and motioned across the little basin. 
I was too short to see over the tall 
marsh grass in the foreground. In 
desperation I found precarious foot- 
ing on a root which brought me on a 
level with their eyes, and looking 
through the branches of an aggravat- 
ing willow bush that was in the way, 
I saw two ears facing me. One 
flicked a fly off. It was a hundred 
yards fully, and the light was failing. 
The ears moved, turned and I could 
guess where the body was. 

' 'Shoot — it's going, ' ' whispered the 
Cap'n. 

Another instant, and the illusive 
"fantail" would be again a m3'th. I 
took the desperate chance and aimed 
where his shoulders ought to be. 
The animal jumped, and gave one 
glimpse of itself going over a log. 

" It is hit "cried the Cap'n. I began 
to weep. It was the first time I had 
fired at a live thing without having 
a sure shot. The four victims of my 
pride had never suffered. Now I 



had wounded that dainty Httle crea- 
ture that could harm no one — and it 
had gotten away. To track it in that 
night in the down timber, was 
impossible. 

"Perhaps you did not hit it, " con- 
soled Nimrod. But the Cap'n, not 
comprehending and also seeking to 
console, insisted that I had. "We'll 
get him in the morning." 

" What did it look like, " I enquired 
of Nimrod, whereupon that gentle- 
man gave me a curious glance. 

"You will see to-morrow, perhaps," 
and changed the subject. 

Oh! ghost of the Fantail! How 
it haunted me that night! If it had 
been trained by the Society for 
Psychical Research it could not have 
done its work better. All night I 
kept vigil and at daybreak we were 
back at the place where it had stood 
on the opposite side of the basin. 
The ground was hard and yielded no 
evidence. For a long time we cast 
about for some sign. It seemed 
hopeless, but I would not give up. 
Every leaf and tiny pebble was 
searched. 

Had we seen anything last night.? 



Had I really fired at something flesh 
and blood, or was it a spook? Yes — 
a tiny drop of blood showed brown 
on a leaf. 

Then began a wonderful exhibition 
of trailing on the part of Nimrod 
and Cap'n. They found the track, 
lost it repeatedly, circled as does a 
dog, got it again, or else a pin point 
of blood on leaf or stone or gravel. 
It led across the ravine up the steep 
bare hillside; once after a tiresome 
search we found where it had lain 
for |the night. Nimrod after close 
study diagnosed the injury as a 
"broken leg." Shuddering and sick 
I urged haste, but that was futile. 
There was no blood now, there never 
had been much, blindly we selected 
a game trail where we saw many 
tracks of a big deer and a lion track 
too, but not the small one we wanted. 
Eight hours had passed in unravelling 
the puzzle. I was exhausted as usual, 
but could not give up. Nimrod 
seemed about to speak, when far 
ahead on the trail I saw a small 
deer. 

The Cap'n whispered "Aim sure." 
At last the "fantail"; up flew the 



gun. "It looks like a fawn," I de- 
murred. It started to go on three 
legs and I hesitated no longer. The 
animal shot in the air, turned a 
complete somersault and rolled a 
hundred yards down the mountain 
before a boulder stopped it, quite 
dead. I am sure the Cap'n never 
tells this story. 

Instead of hurrying toward it, 
Nimrod sat down to rest. He 
answered my amazed look by — 

"That 'fantail' is a blacktail fawn. 
Suspected it last night, but its track 
was peculiar and the Cap'n was so 
sure. I could not see it well last 
night, and its being alone without 
the mother was misleading." 

"Do you know where you are?" 
he added — I shook my head, too 
chagrined for casual matters. 

"Up there is the ridge where the 
lion killed that blacktail doe. Of 
course the fawns would hang around 
in the locality." 

"But the other?" I faltered. 

"Lion got it! I passed the re- 
mains this morning but steered you 
away. Your fawn was wounded, it 
was better to finish " 




I stopped him, not wishing to hear 
more. Trusting to the wisdom of 
another, inspired by a desire to fur- 
ther science, I had tortured and 
killed that motherless little creature! 
No wonder the name of "f ant ail" 
disappeared from the camp circle 
and I never raised a gun again that 
trip or for years and never but once 
since at a living mark. 

Treacherous "fantail," illusive, un- 
proven still, protected by Saint Hu- 
bert, you may roam the hills in safety, 
you may enshroud yourself in 
mystery, while retribution works its 
way with me. 






A SINEW OF THE LAW DISPLAYED 






1 



HAT was the situation. 
We had ended the mis- 
ery of a doe wounded 
to death by a mountain 
lion, we had killed a 
blacktail fawn by mis- 
take for a "fantail." Both crimes 
punishable by law, yet perpetrated 
from the best of motives and by one 
who believes deeply in game protec- 
tion. 

Three days after the tragedy re- 
lated, two men rode into the camp. 
They poked about as though they 
had right to do so, and my growing 
indignation had almost produced 



speech when the elder of the two, 
putting a hand suggestively on the 
doe's skull which Nimrod at that 
moment was sketching, remarked: 

"Are you the fellow who makes 
pictures of animals and writes about 
them? Well, Mr. Nimrod, you are 
my man, you are under arrest! 
I reckon that skull and this fawn 
skin will do. My name is Dean." 
He displayed a game-warden's badge 
with an air of triumph. 

Immediately there was a great 
hubbub in camp. Nimrod arrested 
for killing a doe and a fawn, Nimrod 
who had not fired a gun the whole 
trip! In vain I endeavoured to ex- 
plain that mine the killing, mine the 
punishment. Nimrod would not 
permit it. He assumed the blame, 
but described to Dean the situation; 
of no avail. 

"I ain't made an arrest this sum- 
mer and I'm about due to hold 
down my job. I've got a good case, 
plenty of proof — Mackenzie here will 
swear to it. And it will do me good, 
show my boss I am busy." 

With insolent frankness he said 
this, and the look of the man gave 



no hope that he would relent. Dean 
intended to take his prisoner away 
immediately. It required much per- 
suasion, and a bond to keep Nimrod 
with us under pledge to appear at 
Garver to stand trial within forty- 
eight hours. 

There is an old saying: One never 
knows the law until one breaks it. 
Here was I a criminal, though with 
no such intent, and worst of all not 
allowed to bear my own punishment. 

Thus was our trip broken up and 
by five o'clock next morning our 
gloomy party began a forced march 
in order to make Garver in time. 
One hundred miles in two days is 
not possible with a pack-train. Leav- 
ing Sommers and Charley to bring 
it as fast as they could, the Cap'n, 
the Tevi and the criminals hurried 
ahead, our horses at a trot over logs, 
bogs, wasps' nests, jolt, jolt, an 
awful day's travel. We ate a cold 
dinner, with the exception of coffee, 
and in the small hours got into 
Pine Cone Lodge, more dead than 
alive. Forty miles without a trail, 
part of it in a snow-storm that ren- 
dered the footing most precarious. 





One of the horses had to be shot 
afterward. The cold was of the 
penetrating, damp variety. The 
next day we made the sixty-odd 
miles in a carry-all, over a com- 
bination of ruts and holes and 
' ' corduroy ' ' which was termed a road. 

Oh shades of the Pioneer Mothers! 
For you, such may have been all 
in the day's work — but I am not 
complaining, did you think I was? 
No, only giving a hint of what it is 
like to be caught in the toils of error. 
I cannot pretend to be a heroine, 
and did not enjoy it. 

The Cap'n was undeniably per- 
turbed. This arrest might seriously 
hurt his business, if followed by 
conviction. He had sent a call 
among the mountains for a rally of 
his friends at Garver, with what 
result you shall see. 

"All I want is fair play" he said. 
"Dean is a bad character. Has 
killed two men and been in the 
'Pen.' But he's got a pull that 
made him game warden and he 
wants to show them what he can 
do. And he ain't friendly to me, 
or anybody, as I know of." 



Our first business in the morning 
was to secure counsel, one Hiram 
Barker. Our second, to seek with 
a purpose the county newspaper 
office; but news was scarce, it was 
too good a story and the editor, who 
was also owner as well as printer and 
devil, smiled at us deprecatingly 
and wrote and wrote and wrote, 
creating a wonderful fabric with 
enough woof of truth to make it 
hold together. Wizard Fantail, are 
you not yet avenged ? 

As we were walking down the main 
street in the brilliant shimmering 
sunshine, Sally exclaimed: "Oh, 
look! isn't that Mr. Barker with a 
new suit on, 'ready made' from Chi- 
cago and a b'iled shirt?" 

"Yes," Nimrod affirmed. "They 
say that he always gets a new suit 
of clothes when he is retained on a 
case. The boys call it his law suit. 
We left him in Swan's Emporium an 
hour ago when Mrs. Nimrod acquired 
the affair she is wearing that makes 
her look like a peony! " This was a 
thoroughly reproachable shirtwaist of 
shrimp pink flannel ; mine was in tat- 
ters and the luggage fifty miles away. 




Sally took up the Barker theme. 
"Now he is a flourishing attorney, 
one day in the week in his office. 
This morning in overalls and a 
flannel shirt he was a hard-working 
farmer. Has a ranch fifty miles 
below here, you say? His trousers 
are over his boots and he has a cigar 
instead of a quid in his mouth. 
These ate the final touches. The 
butterfly has burst forth." 

"More like a magpie. Wait till 
you hear him this afternoon." Nim- 
rod looked at his watch. It was 
nearing two o'clock. Hiram Barker, 
attorney-at-law, on seeing the group 
changed his course and bowing cere- 
moniously to the ladies addressed 
his client. 

"I see the jedge is makin' for the 
court room and Mister Dean is 
waitin' for him on the steps. He 
ain't got no call to be friendly with 
the jedge jest now." Then giving 
himself a little mental shake he 
slipped out of his Western vernacular 
as he had out of his rancher's 
clothes, and his speech became as 
ready made as his attire. 

"Shall we proceed to the court 



room? Judge Neal is punctual. I 
find that the prosecution has a few 
exhibits." He conversed in a low- 
tone with Nimrod until the main 
business block of the town was 
reached. It was two story, of brick, 
the ground floor divided into stores, 
the second floor devoted to several 
offices and the ' * town hall. ' ' Within 
its bare, dirty, whitewashed walls 
had transpired most of the excite- 
ments of Garver. Its dances, its 
political meetings, its theatricals, its 
public functions and its trials. On 
gala occasions, flags and greens may 
have draped its ugliness, to-day 
there was not one spot of beauty 
upon which the repelled eye could 
rest. High, narrow windows, dirty 
and bare of shades, admitted the 
August's sun full heat upon a deal 
table at one end, a dozen wooden 
chairs grouped near it and two rows 
of heavy wooden benches ranging 
back from it. A glass transom, 
broken at some more jovial session 
had been mended with brown paper, 
and the insignia of winter, a cast- 
iron pot-bellied stove, had been dis- 
jointed by one pipe length, the two 



severed ends gaping mute testimony 
to the room's neglect. 

The Tevi sat on one of the front 
benches, with me. Nimrod upon 
another bench with the sheriff, the 
front of a group of men. Facing us, 
behind the deal table on a revolving 
chair sat the particular branch of 
Uncle Sam's tree of justice who was 
to preside over our fate. 

Judge Neal was a wizened, sandy- 
haired old man with kindly twinkling 
eyes. He wore a small round felt hat, 
which neither Sally's presence nor 
mine had dislodged, a crumpled stiff 
shirt front and a white cotton hand- 
kerchief in lieu of a collar. Being 
lame, a heavy walking stick reposed 
upon the table. It served as a 
paper weight, and later, when pro- 
ceedings grew lively, as a gavel. 

Dean was on one side of him, 
Barker on the other. The sun 
poured down upon them, the flies 
buzzed noisily, the heat was suf- 
focating. 

One could not but contrast the 
general discomfort and ugliness, and 
the fires of greed and hate and mur- 
der lurking near, with the days 



203( 



before, under God's roof where the 
soul could feel its eternal beauty. 

At five minutes past two, the 
little mild-mannered judge laid aside 
his hat, a signal that he had assumed 
the role of "yer honour" and in a 
rough and ready way the wheels 
of justice started. A jury of six was 
impanelled. Dean's first question to 
each," Are you a Woodman?" met 
with an invariable "Yes." Then 
on one pretext or another he en- 
deavoured to exclude the man as 
juror. I was puzzled at this until 
Bobbie whispered: 

"Cap'n is a Woodman and they 
have all rallied to help him out. 
He's evidently popular." 

"What is a Woodman?" 

"OnC' who belongs to a semi- 
secret organization out here. If Nim- 
rod loses, it will reflect on Cap'n and 
hurt his business. Look at Dean, 
he's furious. The whole six are 
Woodmen. He can't help it." 

The case proceeded quietly. The 
prosecution presented its charges, 
that of killing doe and fawn. The 
judge fussed with his papers. Mac- 
kenzie was called as witness. He tes- 




tified to seeing a dead fawn skin with a 
bullet hole in it and a hornless skull 
lying in our camp. Here the pros- 
ecution and the defence, namely 
Dean and Barker, fell to wrangling. 
It finished with the following scene. 

Barker to Dean. "Perhaps the 
learned gentleman for the prosecu- 
tion will explain for the benefit of the 
Court the difference between a bear's 
skull and a doe's skull." 

Dean. "It is not necessary, unless 
the learned gentleman who asked 
the question, needs coaching." 

Barker. "I should like to ask if 
there is as much difference as between 
a doe's skull and a human skull." 

Dean, darting a fiery glance at 
him, but controlling himseS: "The 
gentleman is out of order, your 
Honour." 

The judge ruled that he was and 
thumped the stick upon the table 
twice for no apparent reason, but 
I began to perceive a subtle change 
in the attitude of the men about us. 
The air was becoming electric. I 
recalled that Dean had killed a man, 
Cortwright two years before, in a 
livery stable at Golden, shot him 



in the back, and that still another 
murder was attributed to him. 

Barker (changing his tack) . ' ' The 
learned gentleman has not spent all 
his time in the mountains? He has 
lived in a town — Golden, perhaps?" 

Dean (savagely). "Yes, I lived at 
Golden. What's that got to do 
with the case?" 

Barker (persuasively). ''Perhaps he 
kept a livery stable there — about 
two years ago ? ' ' 

Dean (defiantly, squaring toward 
his tormentor — the witness, the case 
in hand was forgotten) . * ' Yes, I kept 
a livery stable two years ago. What 
is that to youf* 

Every man now was sitting on the 
edge of his seat. One juror who 
was immediately back of Dean fas- 
tened his eyes on that man's right 
arm and gathered himself together 
as a cat does before a spring. Still, 
I did not quite comprehend. 

Barker (in a smooth voice). "And 
left it for good reasons?" 

Dean (in a tone not pleasant to 
hear). "And left it for good reasons." 

Barker. "Did you ever hear of a 
man named Cortwright?" 



_:C 



■mBm 



rx- 






Dean. "To hell with you, you 
infernal scoundrel," and suddenly 
a dozen things happened. Dean's 
hand flew to his right hip pocket. 
The juror from behind pounced on 
him and knocked him to the floor, 
every man was on his feet, the 
judge's stick came down on the 
table. * ' Order — order in the Court. ' ' 

The sheriff sprang forward, re- 
volver in hand. Dean regained his 
feet, cursing under his breath. Again 
the judge's gavel-cane descended 
sonorously and his piping voice com- 
manded ''Order, or the sheriff must 
do his duty." 

Dean, his face ashy pale, stood 
shaking his head like a lion at bay; 
an instant's intense silence, then 
with a visible effort he regained 
self-control. 

Dean. "I beg your Honour's par- 
don. The gentleman of the de- 
fence is a white-livered hell-hound. 
He is trying to derogate the 
character of the counsel for the 
prosecution. " 

Barker attempted to speak. The 
Judge checked him. 

"Gentlemen will please lay all 



weapons on the table — Sheriff ! ' ' The 
sheriff made the rounds and col- 
lected four revolvers. The judge, 
who had also risen in the excitement, 
resumed his seat of justice. With 
a strong undercurrent of bad blood 
which might yet be spilled, the case 
proceeded. Dean made his points, 
a clever fabric, the dead fawn, the 
hornless skull, the dead doe on the 
mountain, evidently devoured by 
Lion afterwards, and much extraneous 
confusing detail. 

Barker broke down the case by 
presenting the truth as he saw it. 
The counsel for the prosecution 
summed up briefly and then Barker 
arose. It was his golden hour. For 
twenty-five minutes by the watch 
he let off what Nimrod afterwards 
called "his natural gas." 

He began slowly: 

"Yer Honour, gentlemen of the 
jury. You have been gathered here 
from your tasks of honourable em- 
ployment to witness a stupendous 
piece of wilful persecution. This 
monumental and egregious error 
has been perpertrated by one who 
by his noble office should ever 



uphold as on the shoulders of the 
populace the worthy laws of this 
magnificent State of Idaho. (He 
gathered breath) Idaho, the brightest 
gem in our great nation's diadem. 

"What man among you — ^what 
man among you, I say, would be so 
blind to the calls of our divine 
Columbia to let for a single fraction 
of time the shadow of suspicion, 
after listening to the evidence here 
shown to-day, that the stranger 
at our doors could have been guilty 
of such conduct as he has herewith 
been charged. What man so lost 
to the powers of reason, whereby 
he shows his divine origin, and 
supremacy over the lower animals" 
— his voice rose in crescendo and 
with a grand action his right arm 
shot up and sawed the air with the 
gesture known as wind-mill, his left 
flung back the flap of his ready 
made coat revealing a label, so that 
all might read "The Fair. $7.98." 

It was the finish touch for Sally. 
"Oh look, didn't I tell you it came 
from Chicago?" 

All oblivious of the real cause of 
the very evident impression he was 



2091 



making, roller after roller of Barker 
eloquence broke upon the rocky- 
shore of his Eastern audience. But 
the jury was visibly impressed. One 
time my face grew very red and the 
shrimp pink reflection had made 
it red enough before. 

"Torn from the loving arms of a 
beauteous wife like a common criminal 
he was snatched away from honour 
and love and position and credit 
and all that he had wrested from 
the world's grasp. Picture the poor 
young wife, deprived of her tender 
and loving partner, alone in the 
mountains, away from her home 
and her dear friends, weeping cop- 
iousl}^ pale and feeble and sick, en- 
during agonies of dread and fear." 

Eyes unconsciously travelled to 
where I sat in the full glow of 
health, looking uncommonly com- 
fortable. Vainly I tried at such 
short notice to become pale, cower- 
ing, fearful, sick and tormented. 

But unabated the volume of the 
orator's words flowed on, carrying 
with it all the debris of his memory. 
He finished with a peroration in 
which the glories of the nation past 




and present were in-woven with 
the stars and stripes of the noble 
flag, and the eagle screamed tri- 
umphant. 

He sat down mopping his brow, 
the jury filed out and in five minutes 
filed back again with a unanimous 
verdict: ''Not Guilty:' 

Dean, by far the more intelligent 
of the two counsels but with human 
kindness turned to bitterness, the 
mark of Cain upon him, shrugged 
his shoulders, muttered that he 
"would get even" with Barker, and 
stalked alone from the court room. 

I sent a thought of sympathy and 
certain admiration after him. He 
was so undoubtedly one with a chip 
on his shoulder, a man against 
whom every hand was raised. His 
own doing. He met the uplifted 
hand with sullen bravery and asked 
no quarter. 

Heavy weights sink to the bottom, 
and the grappling in this legal pool 
had troubled only the surface. But 
tragedy had hovered above the rude, 
bare court room — shadows of the 
murdered Fox and Cortwright, and 
the uncertain fate of Dean and 



Barker, that feud being but just 
begun. 

Gladly we scuttled out of town, 
and leaving the Tevi facing east at 
the railroad, fifty miles distant, we 
sought cover among the Red Men, 
until the winged words of the 'special 
correspondent' (who meant us no 
harm, merely business) had ceased 
to buzz over our particular morsel 
of Yellow food. 






THE 



ROSEBUD — PLENTY COUPS 
PEACE-PIPE 




HEN Nimrod and I ar- 
rived at the Crow Agen- 
cy, the first picturesque 
figure to catch our eye 
was Whiteswan, or, to 
be more accurate, what 
is left of Whiteswan after the Custer 
Battle; for now he is chiefly memories 
and one sound leg. He has, to be 
sure, a bullet-shattered right arm and 
two remaining limbs semi-paralysed, 
which in his portraits of himself, 
he very properly disregards. White- 
swan has passed from a great 
brave in war time, to being the 



chronicler of his tribe in peace. Like 
many another, he has laid down the 
gun for the pen, and, following in 
the path trod by the worthy Cellini, 
the glory of his deeds has lost none 
in the telling. 

Pictograph is the Indian written 
language, as originally it was ours. 
But we have long since evolved "S" 
from a striking serpent that hisses and 
* 'M" from the crude outline of a cow's 
head saying "Moo," while the Indian, 
well-contented, has continued to fol- 
low the customs of his ancestors, 
knowing not the unchanging name 
of a tree but the look of it in all 
weathers and all seasons. His own 
barometer, compass, architect, food- 
provider and defender, he needs none 
of the complicated civilised machin- 
ery, and his library is always spread 
before him. Hence the pictograph 
serves sufficiently well now, as in 
the Stone Age. 

Through an interpreter I asked 
Don't-walk-on-top if the Indians 
had any jokes, whereupon he drew, 
amid much chuckling among the by- 
standers, one of the old reliablesfrom 
the stock-in-trade of the human race, 




WHITESWAN-A PORTRAIT BY HIMSELF 



regardless of colour or country. He 
called it ' ' Two squaws scolding their 
husbands for being out all night." I 
refer this drawing to the Art students 
as it appears to contain a valuable 
suggestion — If hands are difficult, 
don't draw hands. Or as in the 
record of Exploits by Whiteswan, 
if an incident is to be disconnected 
from others on the same page, turn 
it upside down. Surely such a so- 
lution would occur to few, but it is 
undeniably effective. 

The dominant figure among the 
Absarokas is Plenty Coups, the war 
chief. He finds the pictograph quite 
sufficient for his needs in running 
a country store. Why keep an 
elaborate set of books with double, 
redouble (pardon) entry, and a 
staff of mathematicians, when a 
ledger like the following serves 
every purpose? A mark is put 
for every dollar, a long mark 
for every tenth dollar and a pic- 
ture above to denote the owner. 
When the account is cancelled it is 
rubbed out. Why have a burden- 
some file to remind one of "has 
beens"? The ingenuity of Plenty 




Coups's drawings shows his inheri- 
tance in the pictographic art. 

How many, off hand, would be able 
to depict with a few strokes "He 
Rides on Top" (5) or an "Old 
Woman Otter" (4) or "The Other 
Buffalo" (i) or a "Small." This last, 
simple enough, an arrow placed in the 
hand for comparison of size. Won- 
derfully simple — when one knows 
how. 

Our introduction to Plenty Coups 
was effected by Whiteswan and upon 
this occasion another side of the 
Indian simplicity was forced upon 
us. Happy people to whom the germ 
theory has not yet penetrated! Not 
a thought do they give whether there 
be one or five million bacteria in 
their food, or utensils. The principal 
social ceremony, that of smoking 
the peace pipe, is the epitome of in- 
difference to microbes good, bad or 
neutral. Squaws, striplings, and un- 
feathered braves are not allowed to 
participate in smoking the peace pipe, 
so when this honour was offered to 
me, a paleface squaw, my courtesy 
and prudence had a severe strain. 

Chief Plenty Coups's village where 




PLENTY COUPS' LEDGER 

1. The Other Buffalo 4. Odd-Woman-Otter 

2. Bird-on-His-Bonnet 5. He-Rides-on-Top 

3. Plain Feather 6. Plenty-Otters 



he holds rude court, is about four miles 
from the Agency where his trading 
store is located. At council and on 
gala occasions he wears his great 
warbonnet made of eagle feathers, 
one for each deed of valour, or coup. 
The string trails far on the ground, 
and it was the great number of these 
that gave cause for his name. Plenty 
Coups. He is a bom leader; his men- 
tal equipment and executive powers 
would have spelled success in any 
walk of life, and now, convinced of 
the hopelessness of struggling against 
such overwhelming odds as the pale- 
faces possess, he has accepted their 
way and taken successfully to com- 
merce. 

It was nearly nine o'clock on a very 
black night, which had enabled us to 
lose the road twice, when we finally 
reached the Chief's teepee and waited 
without, while Whiteswan announced 
our arrival. The Council was about 
to begin. As Whiteswan opened the 
flap for us to enter, the heavy air of 
many unwashed people in the twenty- 
foot teepee made me elect to stay 
near the door, thereby gaining credit 
for modesty (it is not seemly for a 




squaw to be too bold) and doubtless 
contributing to the honour that the 
future held. The braves were seated 
cross-legged in a wide circle around 
the fire. Plenty Coups in the seat 
of honour opposite the door, the 
chiefs next in standing were on each 
side of him and so on till the circle 
was completed by the paleface 
visitors. In groups back of the coun- 
cillours stood squaws, children, 
youths and various disqualifieds. I 
was the only woman seated, the 
Chief having graciously motioned 
me to do so. No English was used, 
not a syllable; in fact, hardly any 
Absaroka, the whole ceremony was 
performed in the sign language, of 
which Nimrod knew a good deal and 
I a smattering. 

By gesture Chief Plenty Coups 
said that he was pleased to welcome 
the distinguished stranger who loved 
the animals and understood the wild 
things, and pleased to greet his 
squaw. 

Then Nimrod arose. He ex- 
pressed himself that for three sleeps 
we had travelled to make the 
acquaintance of the distinguished 




> 

X 

o 

a 
z 

< 

CQ 

E 
O 

z 

Q 
O 

o 



225 



Plenty Coups, etc. (I longed for a 
moving picture of him in action.) 
When Nimrod had finished his pan- 
tomine, a squaw brought the peace 
pipe, and handed it to Plenty Coups, 
another squaw filled it and by means 
of two sticks, brought a live coal from 
the fire, our only illumination. Ma- 
jestically and in absolute silence 
the Chief smoked the time immemo- 
rial emblem, in this case a sandstone 
carved bowl and a twisted wooden 
stem two feet long, much painted, 
beaded and feathered. At last it 
appeared to be drawing well ; he arose 
and blew four smokes, to the four 
Great Winds or Spirits. First to the 
East, the beginning of all things, 
then to the North, the South, last to 
the West, the end of all things. 
Silently he sat again upon his fur 
robe and passed the lighted pipe to 
the right hand chief. Grey Wolf, 
who repeated the ceremony with 
equal solemnity and handed the 
pipe to Whiteswan, on Plenty Coups' s 
left. Slowly in this manner the pipe 
progressed zigzag down the line. 
I fell to counting how many mouths 
it would have entered before it came 





to Nimrod, providing he was to be 
favoured — twenty- three! poor Nim- 
rod ! I had not even the satisfaction 
of offering him some antiseptic Hp 
salve, by chance in my pocket, as 
the silence was so obvious, I had not 
the courage to break it. As the 
twelfth brave sat down Plenty Coups 
indicated that he thought it was pro- 
per for the distinguished paleface and 
his squaw to join the ceremony. 
So the evil-smelling thing came our 
way and Nimrod arose and did his 
duty. 

I was in a quandary. It was con- 
trary to all custom and a very great 
honour to include me, but the Chief 
surely had made the sign of long hair, 
which means squaw. Still when Nim- 
rod proffered the pipe I hesitated, 
but Plenty Coups left no room for 
doubt. * ' The Great Spirit will accept 
greeting from the paleface squaw. ' ' 

That pipe was the nastiest tasting 
and smelling thing that ever got into 
an unwilling mouth. The tobacco 
was rank, the mouthpiece, of course, 
had done yeoman service. I man- 
aged to salute the East — ^why were 
there so many points to the compass ? 



227 I 



— the North and South got smoke 
tears as well as smoke. Well, at least 
the West was the end of all things. 
I sat down feeling that I had earned 
a brevet from the diplomatic service, 
and as soon as possible sought the 
air. 

I have never been able to place the 
blame for the indescribable taste 
of that pipe; to be sure I am not a 
second Mrs. Buchanan and I had 
never smoked a pipe before, so it 
may have been any one or all of 
those twelve braves, or it may have 
been the innumerable previous cere- 
monies, or the poor tobacco. Well, 
it is a bygone. The moon had burst 
through the clouds and the ride 
back to Crow Agency was delightful, 
and before the Dog Dance, two days 
later, I was quite able to discriminate 
between vinegar and mustard and 
appreciate the graciousness of that 
majestic old man with his feather- 
ful record of exploits and his dignified 
acceptance of national defeat. Long 
may he couch on sage brush, talk in 
sign language and write in picto- 
graph ! Civilisation has nothing to 
teach him. 





AT THE FEAST OF THE DOG DANCE — ■ 
THE WAY OF ARABELLA HORSE- 
TAIL 



NCE an Indian, always 
an Indian. No matter 
how the "Great White 
Father ' ' may pinch and 
pound the clay, its 
shape may alter, it is 
still red clay. It was at the Feast 
of the Dog Dance that I realised 
this in learning the story of Arabella 
Horsetail. 




The three o'clock recess bell had 
not stopped sounding when a figure 
in brown calico, sprigged with white, 



stole out of the schoolyard gate 
and sped along the road to the rail- 
way station. The west-bound train 
passed an hour before, so the place 
was deserted, and Arabella Horse- 
tail crossed the tracks unobserved 
and away up the hill, where a turn 
in the road hid her from sight of the 
tiny settlement, which the Whiteman 
calls Crow Agency. On sped the 
flying feet over the pathless arid 
waste to a group of trees a mile away, 
the only ones in sight. They marked 
a sudden crack in the ground, as 
though God had scooped out the 
place with His finger that some 
green thing might find moisture, 
and live. Six trees only had dared 
to rear themselves in this gully, and 
their shapes could be seen from afar, 
the more so as strange objects marred 
the symmetry of their outline — 
oblong shaped bundles of bright 
coloured blankets, wound from end 
to end with buckskin thongs and 
securely strapped to the branches; 
for these were the Manakes-ees, the 
trees of the Absaroka dead. 

The girl sped to the last lone tree, 
where memory said, her mother had 



been placed six years before. In- 
stinctively she went, with unseeing 
eyes, and flung herself at full length 
on the bunch grass beneath it. Her 
mind was in a whirl. Wild rebellion 
filled her thoughts. The ways of 
the Whitemen were past bearing — 
how she hated them! They 
had snatched her away from the 
happy careless life of her people 
when she was a roly poly babe of 
five. For ten years they had made 
her wake, sleep and eat at their 
bidding, had coaxed and coerced 
her to learn their manners, their 
customs, their ideas, until civilisa- 
tion hung upon her like a badly 
fitting garment that hid her good 
points and showed her bad ones. 
And now, so pleased are they with 
their work, they are going to send her 
to Carlisle, the Whiteman's college for 
Indians, and for three more years 
there would be no escape — unless 
she married. Why should they 
think their ways, their religion, so 
much better than those of her people ? 
"They have taught me," she thought 
proudly, * ' to think in their language, 
but they cannot teach me to think 







their thoughts, for I am Indian, an 
Absaroka, and come from a great 
people, who would rather walk on 
the great broad earth that belongs 
to all, than on a carpet made by 
one man, owned by another and 
coveted by a hundred. Ugh! I 
hate them, I hate their civilisation. 
In their arrogance, forcing upon us, 
the weaker, a religion upon which 
they cannot agree themselves. They 
ask us to give up our way of bar- 
tering a thing we don't want for a 
thing that we do, and learn instead 
their love of money, though all the 
time crying that it is the curse of the 
world. They have brought us whis- 
key and cigarettes. What do they 
offer us in exchange for the bright 
sun-heat, the wild glad rain, the 
mountain top, the crystal stream, 
the everlasting plain, for the rich red 
blood coursing through our veins, for 
the love of nature, whether her moods 
be stern or gay ? 

"What is their civilisation? Do 
they pretend that it will make us 
happier? Look at my people to- 
day ! This is what they would force 
upon me, their man-made clothes, 



their man-made God. And because 
they are many and my people few, 
they say, 'We are right; do as we 
do or die' — and we die. 

"They killed my mother when 
they tore me from her arms, her 
one ewe lamb. 'Manita, Manita, I 
cannot live without you!' I can 
hear her last cry now, so long ago, 
before Grey Wolf and Whiteswan 
laid her away up there. 'Manita!' 
Oh mother — and they call me Ara- 
bella Horsetail! Ugh, I hate them! " 

Manita sprang to her feet with 
clenched hands, flaming cheeks, and 
arms uplifted toward the tree. She 
suddenly became aware of her sur- 
roundings. The tree where her 
mother had lain so long was empty, 
and on the ground, not six feet from 
where Manita had been lying, was a 
long bundle with thongs cut and 
wrappings undone, and protruding 
from the mass of blankets was the 
shrivelled, mummified remains of — 
her mother. 

She stood for a long time stunned, 
gazing at the awful spectacle. Then 
with a little shake, she began to think 
again, but slowly and with difficulty 




' ' Coyotes — tore — it — down — p e r - 
haps — No, no, the thongs — were — 
cut — with a knife. ' ' She approached 
shrinkingly. 

' ' Her rings — armlets and necklace 
are gone — she has been robbed! 
The White Devils have done this — 
they have robbed my mother — 
they have despoiled the dead !" 

She felt numb. She could only 
repeat with wearying monotony, 
"They killed her— they killed her!" 
After a while the voice in her ears 
said instead: "They robbed her in 
life and in death." 

The peculiar odour from the 
corpse added to her horror. Then 
something snapped in her brain. 
She sank in a heap beside her 
mother, and went floating off into 
space in a swirling, throbbing 
darkness. 

It was dawn the next morning 
when Sharpnose and Whiteleg, herd- 
ing cattle on the range, passed the 
Manakes trees and noticed some 
unusual objects under the south 
bank of the gully. They rode up to 
see what they were. 



Their approach awakened Manila, 
who had passed from her swoon into 
the sleep of youth, and was much 
refreshed. The curses of Sharpnose 
and Whiteleg as they replaced the 
dead in a crotch of the tree and 
lashed it firmly with Sharpnose's 
lariat, told Manita that her mother 
would be avenged, and her thoughts 
took a more personal bent. The 
rebellion in her heart was ten times 
stronger than yesterday, but she 
no longer wanted to take White- 
leg's bright sharp knife and plunge 
it into the heart of Mr. Warwick, 
the missionary and teacher of the 
school. To kill him would mean to 
die too. The arms of the White 
Government are long and many, 
and merciless — and she wanted to 
be free, to get away from it all, to 
live the life of her people, the life 
to which she was born. 

An Indian woman is, according 
to the Whiteman's law, a ward of 
the Government— in the Agent's pow- 
er — until eighteen, or until married, 
and admitted to be marriageable 
at fifteen. Here was the loop-hole. 
She had no wish to be married, but 




she was fifteen and she saw a chance 
for escape, if . 

As she stood facing the rising sun, 
waiting for Sharpnose and White- 
leg to restore to its place the out- 
raged dead, a plan was slowly 
forming in her mind. The great, 
fiery ball was well up in the horizon 
when the two men approached her, 
leading the horses. 

Ah-heh-et-seh, Sharpnose, the fam- 
ous hunter, was lithe, sinewy, grace- 
ful, with clear coppery skin and 
handsome face. 

It-tas-da-chirsch, Whiteleg, was 
thickset, with heavy, stolid features 
to which smiles and flashes of pleas- 
ure were little known. 

Manita sighed. She would have 
preferred Sharpnose, but he was 
married, and would not do. Turning 
to Whiteleg she said, "Will you 
take back me to the school? Your 
horse will carry double." 

Sharpnose, with a nod of goodbye, 
flung himself into the saddle and 
galloped away. Whiteleg silently 
mounted his horse and notwith- 
standing that animal's objections, 
vigorously expressed, drew Manita 



237 I 



Up behind him and started madly 
careering for the Agency. But the 
horse soon gave in to the sharp 
bit and settled to a walk. Manita 
had her arms around Whiteshirt's 
waist, holding on. Her brain was 
busy. Suddenly she spoke. 

" It-tas-da-chirsch, they are going 
to send me to Carlisle." 

A grunt came from in front. 

"I hate them." 

Whiteleg nodded. 

"I won't go." 

Silence in front. 

"It-tas-da-chirsch, I won't go, I 
won't go and you must help me." 
The arm around his body tightened 
into a squeeze, and Manita's lips 
were close to his cheek. "There is 
but one way to escape the White 
Devils. I must marry in my tribe; 
Whiteleg, will you marry me?" 

There was no response, so Manita 
hurried on. ' ' We won't really marry, 
you know. Only make believe, ac- 
cording to the Whiteman's ceremony 
and their God, and we would go 
away to your teepee. Wah-pu-ta, 
your mother, would help us, and 
on the next Sunday, at the meeting 




of our people, you can divorce me 
— according to our law — and I shall 
be free! It won't be much trouble 
for you. Whiteleg," she said, per- 
suasively "Will you?" 

Whiteleg shook his head and 
grunted. The nearness of the girl 
confused him. 

"But remember my mother, re- 
member the years I have been a 
slave, remember what they have 
done to our people. Remember Pine 
Leaf — how they sent her to Carlisle. 
They said she was so bright and 
clever and so adaptable, that was 
the word, and how, when she gradu- 
ated there was no place in the world 
for her. The Whites would not 
take her into their hearts and homes 
just because she wore high-heeled 
boots and carried a parasol and 
spoke grammatical English. They 
might welcome her as an 'interesting 
development,' but receive her as a 
sister, daughter, wife? Never. She 
was too Indian. And we, you re- 
member how we despised her, how 
we turned our backs upon her be- 
cause she had forsaken her people. 
She was too English for us. There 



was no place for her, so she gave 
herself to the Manakes-ees and now 
she lies buried on the Custer Trail. 
Whiteleg, I shall be like Pine 
Leaf. No, no! I will not go! I 
want to live with my people, and 
be free. It-tas-da-chirsch, won't you ? 
and," she added, cunningly, well 
knowing the man before her, ' ' it will 
make Mr. Warwick very sad, for 
he will think we have insulted his 
God and his people, and when he 
sees how little we care and all are 
laughing at him he will gnash his 
teeth. He will hate us, and we will 
be like thorns in his feet; will you?" 
A slight pause ' ' and I will give you 
my pony that Whiteswan is keeping 
for me — ^will you?" 

Then the Indian spoke. 

" Ugh! I hate the Whitemen. When 
shall it be? I'll take pony." 

Manita's delight, was barely re- 
strained, and the man began to 
enjoy the situation. They were 
nearing the settlement and Manita 
poured her plan into her res- 
cuer's ears. He listened with 
occasional grunts, until he drew 
rein before the school-yard gate, 





and the girl slid lightly 
ground. 

Two weeks later the inhabitants of 
the handful of houses that comprised 
the Crow Agency were in a state of wild 
excitement. Arabella Horsetail was to 
be married that morning to Mont- 
gomery Whiteleg — the Montgom- 
ery dating from the week before, 
when the Indian had submitted to 
being baptised and christened, any 
English name taken at random, on 
which occasion Mr, Warwick ignored 
the fact that although Whiteleg 
knew a good deal of English, he 
took no part in this ceremony, ex- 
cept through an interpreter, and 
thanked God that His ' ' poor servant 
had been the means of bringing to 
the fold another of those benighted 
children, and that He in His provi- 
dence, had thus miraculously inter- 
ceded to change the heart of the 
unregenerate, so that disgrace might 
not fall upon one already in the f old. ' ' 

In fact Arabella Horsetail had 
found the way of her marriage 
with Whiteleg remarkably smooth. 
When she had walked into the 
missionary's room at the school after 



that memorable night and announced 
her intention of marrying Whiteleg 
Mr. Warwick had ejaculated ' ' Thank 
God, who is merciful to the sinner!" 
And after sending a message to recall 
the search party that had set out 
the night before to look for Arabella 
he had talked very solemnly to her 
about the sacredness of marriage 
and the terrible punishment of those 
who live in sin, and advised her to 
convert Whiteleg so that an early 
union could be effected. 

His reproaches for running away, 
she took in silence, and life for the 
next few days went on as before. 
Neither conspirator had thought of 
the necessity of the Christianising of 
Whiteleg before the missionary 
would perform the ceremony, and it 
was not until bribed with Arabella's 
painted buffalo robe, an heirloom left 
by her mother, that It-tas-da-chirsch 
consented to become Montgomery 
Whiteleg and nominally a Christian. 

It was while hurrying back to the 
schoolhouse after this interview that 
Manita overheard a conversation 
which unravelled the puzzle of her 
present position. 




She was passing behind the hedge 
that encircled the missionary's gar- 
den, and Mrs. Warwick's voice, 
musically accompanied by running 
water in the irrigation ditches that 
redeemed the garden from the sur- 
rounding waste, was saying to a 
group of Agency people there as- 
sembled for a lazy hour before 
dinner: 

' * Yes, the Indians are a queer peo- 
ple, and they do not civilise easily. 
The Government has to admit an- 
other failure in the recent disband- 
ment of the last Indian Regiment." 

Capt. Wilkins, newly installed in 
command of the Crow Agency, for- 
merly at the Cheyenne remarked — 

"Oh, they are a good-for-nothing 
lot, and hopelessly immoral." 

* * Well, I cannot agree with you in 
that," Mrs. Warwick replied, "or 
at least when the divine influence of 
religion is at work. Take the case of 
Arabella Horsetail. The naughty 
child in a moment of rebellion against 
some petty correction, I suppose, 
ran away from school. She doubtless 
was seen and followed (or it mav 
have been planned) by the dark- 



243 ( 



browed Indian, Whiteleg. They 
were out all night, but early next 
morning he brought her back, both 
of them looking as unconscious as 
could be. Of course it was dreadful, 
she was so young, although quite 
old enough, according to their notions, 
to marry. My husband could get 
nothing out of her concerning her 
night's escapade but wild stories of 
faints and dead trees, to which of 
course, he paid no attention. But 
he felt his duty in the matter and as 
delicately as possible made her see 
her immoral position, and his victory 
— thanks to the All-wise Power, was 
easier than he had expected, as 
Arabella herself proposed marrying 
Whiteleg, and has been instru- 
mental in bringing him into the fold 
of the Redeemed. As you know, the 
wedding has been hurried as much as 
possible for her sake, and takes place 
next Sunday. It will be the first 
Indian wedding sanctified by the 
church and Mr. Warwick feels that 
he has not laboured in vain. So 
you see, my dear friends, they are 
not quite unredeemable." 

And a silvery laugh floated over 



^^,f^^* Ji%* 




the hedge and lost itself in the water, 
as Manita stole away busy with the 
problem that has worn out so man}^ 
why it is easier to believe evil than 
good. 

The wedding was set for three. 
Already the morning service was 
over and Arabella was being dressed 
in a- white frock of lawn, well 
starched, and a net veil that had 
already done duty as a window 
curtain in Mrs. Warwick's parlour. 
Manita in soft buckskins and bead- 
ed moccasins, with hair unbound, 
might have rivalled Pocahontas or 
Minnehaha; but Arabella Horsetail 
in a tight white dress, with skirt and 
sleeves at that fatal neither-long- 
nor-short length, in clumsy shoes, 
her stiff black hair screwed into a 
knot behind, and the blood swept 
away from her face by excitement, 
leaving it a dull gray brown, was 
depressingly ugly. 

The sun glared in the cloudless 
sky. Arabella's schoolmates were 
already fidgeting in their seats in 
the chapel, where the ceremony was 
to be performed, and the various 



245 



white folk of the Agency, including 
ourselves arrived, when word was 
brought to the waiting bride-elect 
that there was a hitch in the pro- 
ceedings. Montgomery Whiteleg re- 
fused to have his hair cut. A 
simple thing, but a knife upon which 
nations have split. To the Indian 
the loss of his hair was an indignity, 
to the missionary, the refusal to 
lose it a sacrilege. The affair was at 
a deadlock. 

When the situation was explained 
to her, Arabella arose, rushed out of 
the school, and, her white veil float- 
ing behind, ran along the road, 
around the corner and into the 
trading store, where Whiteleg, the 
centre of a group of men, was sitting 
savage and sullen. He looked at her 
out of the corner of his eyes, and 
then seizing her hand he pulled her 
into the street, out of hearing of 
the men. "The White Devil goes 
too far," he muttered. 

" It-tas-da-chirsch promised Man- 
ita," the girl said simply. Then she 
added, "My three ponies and my 
buffalo robe are yours. At the 
Dog-dance next Sunday it will be 







246 



your turn to throw the lasso around 
Mr. Warwick. " 

Whiteleg turned sullenly to the 
store and sat down again in the chair. 
Arabella motioned to Tom Don't- 
walk-on-Top, the interpreter, who 
was also barber, and then sped 
back to the school. 

Ten minutes later Mr. Warudck 
joined these two according to the 
Episcopal service of the Christian 
religion, Arabella Horsetail respond- 
ing in English, and Montgomery 
Whiteleg only through the inter- 
preter. Then came the congratula- 
tions. All Arabella's schoolmates 
kissed her good-bye, and looked at 
her with big wondering eyes that 
she could yet seem the same while 
she must be so different, being now 
married, and they gladly allowed the 
problem to be drowned in lemonade 
and cake. 

As soon as the ceremony was over, 
Whiteleg strode from the building 
and waited in front under a tree 
for Manita, who soon appeared in 
a blue and white calico dress, fol- 
lowed by old Wah-pu-ta, eac^ 
carrying a big bundle, these 



247 < 



comprising all of Arabella's worldly 
effects. 

When Whiteleg saw them he 
wrapped his blanket around him, 
thus covering his 'store clothes,' 
and empty-handed, as befits a brave, 
started at a slow pace along the road 
to his wigwam, some two miles from 
the settlement. Manita lifted the 
bundle to her head and followed 
him, keeping well behind. Wah- 
pu-ta did the same, and in this 
fashion the three trailed along the 
hot, dusty road, and disappeared 
from view. 

Manita had been installed in her 
new home three days when one of 
the events occurred which are so 
important to the modern Indian, 
the monthly issue of beef. 

By sunrise Whiteleg mounted one 
of his newly acquired ponies and 
set off for the Ag>3ncy. He was 
to be sentinel that day, and after 
riding through the still sleeping 
settlement, he climbed a high hill 
to the south, from which direction 
the cattle were expected. There he 
remained for hours seated on his 




horse, a mere speck breaking the 
severe Hne of the hill against the 
horizon, but able to see and be seen 
for miles on either side. 

Manita and Wah-pu-ta also were 
early astir, for they had the work 
of the modest establishment to do. 
Wah-pu-ta was old and feeble, and 
many household duties, such as 
carrying water, chopping sticks and 
loading the tethered horses, tasks 
quite beneath the dignity of a brave, 
had been reluctantly assumed by 
Whiteleg. Manita, since her com- 
ing, from a desire to be useful and 
not to be a burden on her rescuers, 
had performed these duties and 
many more, and Whiteleg had 
found it very pleasant to sit in the 
sun, smoke cigarettes and watch her. 
During his long hours of vigil, the 
thought continually recurred to him 
that his teepee, of which up till now 
he had been barely conscious, had 
become a much more attractive 
place than it was last week, or 
last month with only Wah-pu-ta 
in charge. His mind slowly and 
laboriously worked' out one or two 
clear impressions concerning just 



what part he should play at the 
coming Dog Dance, and that part 
would not be, he well knew, in ac- 
cordance with the will of Arabella 
Horsetail. He had decided that Ara- 
bella was good enough to keep, and 
that instead of divorcing her, and 
thus bringing to a successful termina- 
tion this farce, he would at Dog 
Dance marry Manita, the daughter 
of Seatiss, the Wolf. 

Meantime Manita, unconscious of 
the cloud threatening her darling 
wish to be free as the birds and 
responsible to none, blithely did the 
chores of the wigwam and the cook- 
ing bower, and enjoyed the morning 
freshness, which so soon the sun 
would scorch away. They were en- 
camped by the Little Bighorn, a 
muddy stream, which in some way 
managed to coax a few trees and 
bushes along its banks. It seemed 
almost attractive by contrast with 
the monotony of alkali sun-baked 
land that spread away for hopeless 
miles and miles, and comprised the 
Eden that the Government has re- 
served for the Absarokas, or Crows. 

When Manita had harnessed two 



^.^w^ 




shaggy horses to the fourth-hand 
Studebaker, she threw some sacks 
and boxes into the wagon and helped 
Wah-pu-ta to scramble to the seat 
beside her. The old woman tied 
a red and green handkerchief around 
her withered face and opened a 
huge white cotton umbrella, through 
which the sun glared with tireless 
energy. Manita started the horses 
on a jog trot, guided them into the 
road, not far distant, and joined the 
straggling procession of similar con- 
veyances, and of foot travellers, 
who all were bound for the same 
place, the Clerk's office. 

The Government's office at the 
Agency on beef-issue days was a 
puzzle of Whitemen, Indian and 
food, which invariably worked out 
the same result — misunderstand- 
ings — in spite of the reasonings to 
the contrary of the wise men at 
Washington. The record of each 
nominal head of the family is kept, 
and a certain amount of coffee, 
flour, bacon, beans and the like, is 
doled out to him by the allwise 
Government, which sits in its spa- 
cious well-managed homes in the Far 



251 



East and regulates these things. 
The beef also is bought by the 
Government, driven alive and 
killed on the spot, an admirable 
plan, if contractors were always 
honest. 

Manita had followed all the little 
excitements of the day with keen 
interest, it being her first beef issue 
from the Indian point of view. As 
the sun was getting low, she was 
once more seated in the wagon with 
Whiteleg beside her driving, and 
Wah-pu-ta packed in the back with 
bundles and boxes of provisions. Man- 
ita had clasped in her hand a bundle 
containing a pair of moccasins and 
a belt of finest buckskin, beauti- 
fully beaded, for which she had 
exchanged her wedding shoes. 

Nothing was said as they jogged 
along. The twilight came quickly, 
the crescent moon and numberless 
stars dappled the deep blue sky. 
A gentle evening breeze cooled the 
earth, but it failed to cool the 
fevered thoughts of It-tas-da-chirsch, 
in whom the meditations of the 
morning and the frequent draughts 
of firewater in the afternoon had 



255 




combined to produce a state of 
maddest adoration for Manita. 

Emotions such as these do not 
remain long concealed, Wah-pu-ta 
was asleep in the wagon-box. White- 
leg put his arm around Manita 
and kissed her. Then the horses 
requiring attention he was obliged 
to release her. Manita did not under- 
stand, but she entirely disliked the 
new development. Soon White- 
leg renewed his addresses, which 
Manita repulsed. 

" It-tas-da-chirsch has been tak- 
ing fire-water," she said in Ab- 
saroka. 

" It-tas-da-chirsch loves Manita, 
the fawn-like. She is good cook and 
strong. She make good squaw," 
thus Whiteleg, who was a man of 
few words. 

"At Dog Dance I will realty 
marry Manita." He again at- 
tempted to kiss her. 

The world seemed suddenly to 
have broken in two and left Manita 
suspended in mid-air. She climbed 
over the seat into the back of the 
wagon, jostled Wah-pu-ta into wake- 
fulness, and being thus protected, 



tried to calm her thoughts and 
face the new situation. 

She had no intention of marrying 
Whiteleg, but she had no alter- 
native if he wanted to marry her, 
for in the minds of every one but 
Wah-pu-ta, Whiteleg and herself, 
she was already his wife. 

She had made a mistake in taking 
for granted that Whiteleg would 
feel at all times as she did. She had 
made him too comfortable, had fitted 
in too easily. In her gratitude for 
what he had done and was to do for 
her, she had tried to please him, and 
she had succeeded too well. For- 
tunately she still had three days before 
the Dog Dance to change his mind. 

Her first opportunity soon came. 
Whiteleg, who was getting very 
drowsy, dropped his whip in the 
road. Manita refused to pick it up 
saying she was too tired, but agreed 
to hold the reins while he got out. 
Grumblingly he did so, and stumbled 
back after the whip. He heard the 
rumble of wheels when he stooped 
to grasp it, and straightened himself 
in time to see his wagon fading out 
of sight down the road. He started 






254, 



after it, but if there is one form of 
work a settlement Indian hates more 
than another, it is walking; besides 
he was uncommonly drowsy. So he 
sat down on the bank beside the 
road to wait for Manita's return, and 
soon toppled over into an uncom- 
fortable position and fell asleep. 

When he awoke, water was run- 
ning ki the irrigation ditch beside 
him, and the sun was unpleasantly 
hot. He was within sight of his wig- 
wam that had seemed so far the night 
before, and he was in no amiable 
mood as he shambled to the cooking 
bower and sullenly attempted to 
eat what Manita set before him. 
The bacon was burned to a crisp 
and the coffee had a queer taste, 
but Whiteleg said nothing as he 
feared the fault was his own palate; 
the Whitemen's whiskey, as he knew, 
was not a good morning appetiser. 
Neither did he question Manita con- 
cerning last night's disappearance. 
He had a feeling that the less said 
about last night the better. But 
Manita was ready with an explana- 
tion; had, in fact, sat up half the 
night awaiting his return. 



"Whiteleg, the horses nearly ran 
away last night. You know I am 
not gifted with managing horses. I 
studied figures and words at school 
instead of horses." 

Whiteleg looked up in surprise. 
He had particularly noticed the 
power Manita had over the horses, 
which is one of the prides of the 
Indian. He found himself under the 
necessity of changing his original 
conclusion, to his mind, an unpleas- 
ant thing in itself. Then he noticed 
that Manita was sitting idly on a box 
in the shade, when she might have 
been unpacking the wagon, and 
shortly afterward she wandered off 
down the river, so that he was obliged 
to help Wah-pu-ta with the heavier 
things, which were too much for her 
strength. 

Manita came back in time to cook 
the evening meal, and in response 
to Wah-pu-ta's questions, said she 
had gone off for a walk feeling 
rather lazy, and had stopped with 
Ba-kee-da for awhile, and that 
Ba-kee-da had taught her a fas- 
cinating game of cards, called ca- 
sino. No, she was not hungry, 





Ba-kee-da had 
meal for her. 

Whiteleg grunted. Wah-pu-ta had 
a good deal to say but she said it 
mostly to herself in an undertone. 
Manita was amiable and apparently 
unconscious of any change in the 
home atmosphere. 

The dinner was a failure. Manita 
was attended by bad luck. The beans 
were not cooked enough and she had 
forgotten to season them; the mo- 
lasses, which was to redeem them, 
had been allowed to stand so long 
exposed that it had become the 
last home of so many flies and bugs 
that even Whiteleg passed it by. 
The meat, by some awkwardness 
Manita upset into the fire, and when 
it was rescued, tasted chiefly of ashes 
and smoke. Manita obligingly cooked 
another piece which, she being in a 
hurry, was not even warmed through. 
The bread and the corn were burned, 
Manita' s attention having been dis- 
tracted by her other mishaps. 

The next morning Manita put salt 
instead of sugar in the coffee, time- 
worn but effective device, and did 
several other absent-minded things 



which at last brought forth an ir- 
ritated rebuke from Whiteleg, to 
which she rephed good naturedly — 

" I am sorry I am not a good 
cook, and I certainly did have better 
luck when I first started, but what 
do you expect from a girl brought 
up at a Government school? They 
don't teach them to be good squaws. 
They teach them things like this," 
and she repeated " Curfew Shall Not 
Ring To-night," which Whiteleg did 
not understand, and which bored him 
exceedingly. 

After that Arabella Horsetail often 
recited verses she had learned at 
school, and went about in a mooney 
sort of way, failing utterly to see the 
many little things she might have 
done to assist the wigwam economies. 

By Saturday night Wah-pu-ta had 
naturally slipped into her old position 
as cook, and Whiteleg, as of yore, 
had to fetch and carry, for Manita 
was never available at the right 
time, or if she were did the task very 
badly; not from ill-will, she always 
assented cheerfully, but her mind 
was so occupied with gazing at 
the stars, reciting verses, and book- 




learning generally, that the fatigue 
of watching her bungling, was greater 
than doing the thing itself. 

I had been a witness of the mock 
wedding the week before, and now on 
the following Sunday at the Feast of 
the Dog Dance, I was to see the second 
and final scene. 

I remember how blazing hot it was, 
and how dusty, as we drove in a 
springless lumber wagon three miles 
out from the Agency where the 
Indians were encamped. Every 
stone, every leaf was shrouded in a 
thick dust garment — even the river 
bed of the Little Bighorn had shrunk 
to a mere thread ; the heat rose from 
the alkali dust in shimmering waves 
fairl}^ cooking us brown, as in an 
oven. Drawing near the gala ground 
we saw many teepees dotted along 
the banks with onl}^ a few clumps 
of willows and one or two scraggly 
cottonwoods to break the awful 
glare. Many of the teepees were 
painted, which made them most 
picturesque. A large one coloured 
dull red, stood out for miles. It was 
further decorated with a band of 



^59 



animals in various colours, blue, 
green, white, black, and the door 
was closed with a beautiful grizzly 
bear skin of which Nimrod secured 
a photograph together with a copper- 
coloured baby standing in front. 
The little fellow could not have been 
more than four years old; he wore 
nothing but a little breech-cloth, a 
pair of moccasins, a necklace of elk's 
teeth and a feather in his hair, ar- 
rayed for the dance. When he saw 
that Nimrod was going to photo- 
graph him, he ran to fetch a big 
stick, slipped a rag of a garment over 
his head and placed himself in front 
of the teepee, the big bear skin hang- 
ing behind him, his right hand grasp- 
ing the stick, up high — little body as 
straight as an arrow, deliberately 
posing — most unusual, as the belief 
is current among Indians that some 
virtue goes out of them into the 
pictured resemblance. 

When released he scrambled on to 
a pony and joined a dozen or more 
Indian children who were dashing 
around on ponies trying to lasso 
each other. Many of the ponies car- 
ried double, one 'buckskin' had 



three little girls all riding bare-back, 
not a scrap of harness on him but a 
string bridle ; they stuck like burrs — 
without sign of fear — and made the 
horse gallop and turn and twist in 
their play. They wore cheap calico 
dresses with coloured rags braided in 
their hair, but were dressed for the 
occasion in moccasins and leggings 
beautifully beaded, and some wore 
strings of beads and wampum. A 
band of young braves in white man's 
garb mounted on cow-ponies were 
having a race, and rope-throwing con- 
test on the prairie. We had seen that 
sort of thing before, so we left our 
horses tied to the wagon in a group 
with a dozen others that had come 
from long distances to witness the 
Feast. 

The Indians had gathered from all 
over the Reservation, these feasts serv- 
ing as a kind of convention at which to 
transact the business of the nation; 
disputes are settled, business adjusted, 
marriages solemnised, treaties enacted. 

A circle perhaps a hundred feet 
across had been formed by teepees 
and rough shelter tents and in the 
centre of this was a tall pole with 



the American flag at the top and 
some feathers tied below it. Around 
and around the pole danced the 
warriors in full war paint. Some 
of them were of splendid physique 
and their costume was not designed 
to conceal their anatomy. It was prin- 
cipally necklaces, armlets, anklets, 
beads and feathers. A breech-cloth 
was the only thing worthy to be called 
a garment, although some wore a 
beaded flannel jacket, red or blue, 
and sleeveless. The head-dress re- 
ceived chief consideration — beads,bits 
of fur, ribbon and eagle feathers, in a 
band going around the head and along 
a tail hanging to the ground. There 
must have been two hundred Indians 
standing and sitting around the 
dance circle. At the south end was 
the teepee of the Master of Cere- 
monies. He came out every now and 
then and announced in a high sing- 
song voice what was going to happen, 
in Crow, of course. Next to his teepee 
were the musicians. A strip of 
canvas had been stretched above 
them, and they needed it. Two or 
three men beat tom-toms, while a 
half a dozen women relieved each 




other in chanting a weird, high wail, 
in which one could distinguish a 
certain rhythm. 

Nimrod was concerned for fear 
I would have a sun- stroke, my face 
was like raw beef, but the squaws 
made room for us under one of their 
sheltering canvases, and we sat there 
for two hours watching the per- 
formance. The concomitants were 
indescribable — the heat, the glare, 
the sweaty Indians, the crying 
babies, the flies, attracted by bits 
of food thrown about. 

I had been w^atching for a long 
time a charming Indian girl arrayed 
in all the glory of an elk-tooth jacket, 
wampum necklaces and beaded leg- 
gings, her thick black plaits of hair 
woven with bright ribbons. As she 
was evidently nervous, and a visibly 
nervous Indian is a rarity, I asked 
the interpreter about her. He looked 
at me in surprise and said, "That is 
Manita — and that 'sit-tas-da-chirsch," 
indicating a sullen looking, burly fel- 
low who was watching Manita nar- 
rowly. 

In their Indian finery I had recog- 
nised neither as the bogus white 



263- 



folk who had stood at the altar the 
week before. 

With the assistance of Tom, a 
very good fellow, we followed the 
course of the ceremony. The music 
was never allowed to stop and the 
braves — I forgot to say that they 
were gaily painted with stripes and 
spots of yellow, red, black and white 
principally, over the face and body 
— would dance when the spirit moved 
them and until they were tired. 
There were always some of them 
dancing in a kind of continuous 
performance. One time Mak-ke-nah, 
the Master of Ceremonies, came out 
and made a long speech. He was 
a scraggly looking old man, and he 
became much excited, waved his 
arms about wildly, stamped up and 
down, fairly howled sometimes — 
looked as though he was making a 
stump speech, and so he was. Tom 
gave us a gist of it. He began: 

" Hear, hear — listen to Mak-ke-nah 
the Silver-tongued! All ye of the 
mighty Nation of Absaroka, Greet- 
ing." Then he went on to say that his 
people had been great but were now 
under the heel of the Whiteman. 



264 



He painted their past glory with lav- 
ish brush, indulging in much wordy- 
fireworks, and then he blackened 
their faces and called them miser- 
ables in a dozen ways and told 
them that they would be less than 
nothing if they did not rise up and 
smite the Paleface — Nimrod called 
him "a regular old fire-eater." I 
could see the black eyes of the In- 
dians begin to snap. Every now 
and then there would be cries of 
"How how!" Then when he 
stopped, exhausted, a fine old man 
with much dignity came out — and 
we recognised Plenty Coups, one of 
their most honoured chiefs. He said 
he sympathised heartily with every- 
thing that their eloquent brother 
had said, but that he was foolish 
in a variety of ways for stirring up 
the people, as it was hopeless to 
fight the Whiteman; that the world 
had swept beyond the Indian, it m.ust 
be the will of the Great Spirit that 
they should no longer conquer, 
and they must be patient while the 
cloud was upon them. 

Then the Silver-tongued came out 
again and said with many flourishes 



265, 



that he supposed the Chief was 
right, and that now they would 
have a good time feasting. He 
called down the Spirit of the Dog 
upon them. A large iron pot was 
brought into the centre of the ring. 
With upraised arms he gave a kind 
of incantation over it. Then the 
cover was lifted off, and I saw 
it in the pot! Boiled Dog! Some 
of the hair was still sticking to the 
skin. Every man, woman and child 
had a piece, eked out with soda 
crackers and dry bread. Then all 
the braves joined in the great dance. 
They ki-yi-ed and they hoop-la-ed 
and perhaps after that dog business 
I would have been ready to go, but 
for that beautiful, nervous Indian 
girl and her sullen companion. 

During the Feast of the Dog and 
subsequent dance, Manita had been 
earnestly talking to It-tas-da-chirsch. 
She seemed to be arguing with him. 
He appeared obdurate. At last, with 
a gesture of despair, she stopped. 
Her arms hung dejectedly by her 
sides. Suddenly her face brightened. 
Quickly she went to the Chief 
Plenty Coups' s teepee and disap- 



t.^/»^l 




2 66 



peared. Whiteleg looked after her 
in perplexity. Faster went the 
dancers, louder and louder grew 
their cries, and minute after minute 
sped by. Then down from the tent 
came Mak-ke-nah, leading by the 
hand the wild-eyed girl. 

Raising his arm in a commanding 
gesture a sudden silence fell upon 
the throng. 

In a low voice at first, and 
gradually gaining crescendo, he 
told Manita's story, as she had 
poured it out to the listening 
Chiefs, of her unhappy childhood, 
of the mission school, of her moth- 
er's death, broken-hearted for her 
five year old baby torn from 
her, of the vandalism at the dead 
trees, of It-tas-da-chirsch's bargain, 
of her payments to him of the 
ponies and buffalo robe and now of 
his refusal to divorce her. With 
graphic words he laid the story 
before them and finished: 

"And now wise people of the 
great nation of the Absaroka, what 
shall be done to this maiden? Shall 
ye make her squaw to It-tas-da- 
chirsch, who already has her ponies, 



267 I 



or shall ye grant the freedom for 
which she beseeches ye?" 

He stopped; a murmur arose. 
Then stood up an old man, Bear 
Claws, the father of Pine Leaf, the 
one who had killed herself because 
she had been educated away from 
her people. 

"Let her go free," he said briefly. 

A young buck on horseback in the 
outer edge of the ring echoed the 
phrase. Many voices took up the 
cry. Whiteleg was urged to the 
front, but the affair had gotten 
beyond him. He made no resist- 
ance. A chorus of "How — hows," 
and the thing was done. Manita, 
with eyes shining, with the painted 
symbol of virginity still on each 
cheek, bowed to the four winds and 
sped away to be once more a member 
of Seatiss's teepee circle — sped free as 
a bird toward the distant hills and 
the sunset. 

With her went the charm of this 
primitive scene, and we too turned 
our faces toward our birthright — 
the rising sun, and civilisation. 




PART III. 



ON THE OTTAWA 




TE-VIS-CA-BING 






1 



HE Ottawa region was 
the very own stamping 
ground of the Tevi. 
Bobbie Tevis had 
created a hunting box 
in the wilds on one of 
the innumerable lakes that puncture 
that country like a sieve. Te-vis-ca- 
bing he called the roomy log camp, 
which appellation when strongly ac- 
cented on the second syllable, sug- 
gested appropriate Indian. If he 
had perpetrated " I die wild " or some- 
thing or other "villa" — but of 
course, Bobbie would not. 




The Tevi, Nimrod and I tumbled 
off the train late at night much 
excited — after two years to be again 
in the woods. Much violent up- 
rooting from home duties had been 
required to accomplish it, but 
the precious freedom was ours, and 
heaven (a place where one does what 
pleases one best) became available 
on the twentieth of September. 

The little town of Trois Lacs 
(butchered into "Trollak" even by 
the Canuck natives) was already dark 
save for the saloon, and we gladly 
burned the midnight candle while 
exchanging fripperies for frugalities 
of costume and luggage in prepara- 
tion for the early morning start. 

Once while following the econ- 
omical and primitive method in vogue 
at this "hotel" — guiltless of plumb- 
ing — I went to the window to throw 
out some water, when my hand was 
stayed, barely in time, by a mascu- 
line voice pouring out a torrent of 
bad French, or rather a patois. Two 
figures were standing directly below 
in shadow: 

" You will not come. I shall dance 
with Francois — " 



273( 




A mocking feminine voice floated 
up to me, and, as I discreetly lowered 
the sash, the man was vowing by 
all the saints in the calendar that 
he would be at the dance, that he 
knew a way, trust him, and that 
the plus belle flower in Trois Lacs 
should dance with no one but him- 
self, or his hunting knife would kiss 
the flesh of Francois. 

I only understood a word here and 
there but enough to occasion a 
remark to Nimrod concerning the 
picturesqueness of the Latin love- 
making. The Saxon type of man 
who earns his living out-of-doors, 
would probably have said simply, 

" I am coming — and I mean bus- 
iness," but the results would have 
been the same, or even more 'un- 
healthy' for Francois. 

There was no delay in the start. 
By six o'clock our guides were wait- 
ing and in another hour we and our 
belongings had been ferried over the 
Ottawa in a huge batteau that looked 
none too strong to navigate the 
rapids and the log-choked surface of 
this mighty river. 

While the wagons that were to 




take us the forest part of the journey 
were being packed, Sally and I stood 
on the shore and looking across the 
turbulent water-way to some lumber- 
men's shanties, bade farewell to the 
Ottawa, and to cut-glass, damask 
and long skirts. Then we inspected 
the men upon whom so much depend- 
ed for comfort or misery during the 
next month. The Tevi's two guides, 
George and Arthur, were Ottawa 
river-men and experienced in the 
country. Bert, our special guide, as 
well as the all-important cook, had 
been imported from the Adirondacks. 
The Cook was a Civil War veteran 
burdened, as we soon learned, with 
disabilities and wonderful stories. 
Nate Creche, as "camp boy," com- 
pleted the party. Nate was essen- 
tially a "TroUak" product. It was 
his birthplace, thirty years ago, and 
represented to him the big world, to 
which he came occasionally when he 
had accumulated enough to have a 
"good time." Reared in lumber 
camps, with limited intelligence and 
no education, but much native cun- 
ning, he spoke three languages abom- 
inably, English, French and Indian. 



Nate once described himself as a 
" pot-pourri of French, Indian, Nigger 
and Irish." He knew how to do a 
great many things badly, but he had 
one ability which, by dint of much 
practice, he had developed into an 
art — he could tell a lie, or a chain of 
lies, and make it a well-nigh perfect 
piece of work. 

He never employed the truth if he 
could arrange to do without it, and it 
was this consistency that made him 
possible to get on with, as the mis- 
chief of a lie comes when it is 
believed. 

Physically he was as tough and 
stunted as a scrub oak, swarthy as 
an Indian; his head, surmounted by 
a great mop of coarse black hair, 
was small and set on a massive 
muscular throat column, such as the 
Stone Age man must have had, and 
which was further developed by 
long use of the tump line. He 
was a creature who seemed to have 
inherited many of the vicious strains 
of his various forebears without their 
off-setting good qualities, save a cer- 
tain Irish good nature. 

But I digress and am doubtless 




too severe, influenced by the recol- 
lection of certain occasions, two in 
particular, when we were victims 
of this irresponsible creature — really 
no more to be blamed than a lumber- 
ing mastiff puppy who knocks over 
one's pet Sevres vase by a wag of 
his tail. 

The supply wagon had been 
packed and our host wanted Nate 
to start ahead with it. Nate was not 
to be found until a loud halloo 
brought him up the bank from the 
river with a remark about "getting 
a drink of water." 

George favoured Arthur with a 
wink. "Nate's been sa3dn' good-bye 
to his girl. She's a good 'un. He 
is afraid he will lose her. ' ' 

Far across the water at Trois Lacs, 
I saw a tiny figure in white standing 
on the shore, and was reminded of 
the other two lovers the night before. 
Truly Cupid seemed busy here. 

Such a road we now had to travel ! 
We could not claim to be unacquain- 
ted with such, as this was not our 
first trip into the wilds, but there 
is something so aggressively uncom- 
fortable in a rocky, boggy, hilly, 



rutty corduroy road, that one can 
never form the habit. Like Cod 
Liver Oil, each acquaintance with 
it means a fresh victory. 

Fifteen miles in five hours would 
hardly win the Vanderbilt Cup, but 
when Crosby's Lake, our lunching 
place, shimmered through the trees 
we were as thankful as though its 
silver were the hard earned bauble 
itself, and we the owners. 

At luncheon Bobbie, perched pre- 
cariously on a boulder, held forth on 
the merits of canoes over horses as 
a means of locomotion. It sounded 
attractive — and proved to be all 
quite true — long hours of gently 
gliding through placid waters, fish 
darting beneath, ready to furnish hy- 
gienic meals, beautiful arboreal shores 
in view, now far, now near, flower- 
strewn portage trails, with an occa- 
sional game animal staring at us 
through the trees. Likewise the 
greater carrying power of a canoe 
over a horse and consequent addi- 
tional comforts — about which there 
is more to be said later. 

But Bobbie gave only one side of 
the picture. He neglected to state 



that sometimes the fish refuse to be 
caught and that it rains, yes, and 
rains and rains again, and the winds 
lash angry waves, upon which, there 
is no peaceful gliding but much need 
of strenuous endeavour and a knowl- 
edge of swimming. He failed to 
note the necessity of staying in a 
cramped position until one has sam- 
pled a large collection of aches and, 
lastly, that the flower-strewn portage 
is more often the trail of fatigue on 
which burdened humans, doing the 
work of pack-horses, sweat and strain. 
No, my preference is still for the four- 
footed friend who does most of the 
work, neither automobiles, airships, 
nor canoes can win away my 
allegiance. 

Still I acknowledge the wonderful 
charm of the water country and the 
almost human companionship of the 
canoe. And the soft ease of smoothly 
ghding on a placid lake was borne in 
upon my soul the following morning 
when we were astir before the sun 
had cleared away the water veil that 
had draped the landscape in silvery 
softness. We had spent the night 
at a deserted lumber camp, now in 




EACH IN A CANOIi WHH A GLIDE TO PADDLE 



28li 



charge of a man and a cow, and used 
as a half-way house by the few 
travellers who go into those wilds. 
Creche and the Cook had already 
started with the loaded wagon over 
a well-nigh impassable wood road. 
We were to take the water route 
and all expected to reach Te-vis- 
ca-bing that night. 

Each in a canoe with a guide to 
paddle it, we slipped through water 
so calm that later when the inevi- 
table photograph was developed, so 
sharp was the reflection that one had 
to examine closely to know real from 
shadow. This was indeed all that 
our host had pictured. The wooded 
shores brilliant from the first frosts 
rose like the rim of a huge cup waiting 
for Manabozou to quaff an autumn 
vintage. Three miles of easeful silent 
motion and we landed at the first por- 
tage. Each guide without waste of 
time or speech swung his canoe over 
his head and started on the trail, in 
this case a mile up a hill and down 
again to the next lake. 

We started more leisurely as the 
guides were to make two trips to 
our one, we having brought some 




"duffel "that Bobbie had deemed not 
wise to leave on the bumping, jolting 
wagon — eggs for instance, and other 
breakables. Nimrod weighed his 
pack, twenty-three pounds, and 
laughed it to scorn, but I noticed he 
was willing to rest when Sally and I, 
out of breath, dropped on a moss- 
covered bank at the top of the hill, 
Bobbie carried his guns and seemed 
to find them sufficient. I had started 
with a gun, seven pounds; a camera, 
three pounds; alittle bag, two pounds; 
and a fishing rod, half-a- pound. 
One by one these articles were trans- 
ferred to Nimrod, but I wish to 
relate that I came triumphantly 
through with the fishing-rod. 

Once more in the canoe on the 
Second Lake, in answer to my obvious 
remark that every pound seemed to 
double its weight every five minutes, 
Bert, my paddler, said: 

"Yes'm. Some greenhorns tries 
to work us like pack-horses. But 
let 'em try a 'carry' themselves. I've 
seen 'em. They begin by throwin' 
away and throwin' away until they 
get down to a pocket handkerchief. 
Then they tear that in two — and 



^83t 



keep the half with the hole in it — 
sssh!" 

He had spoken in a low tone for we 
might see game at any time, and 
his abrupt ending warned me that 
something interesting was about to 
happen. Nimrod in the bow of his 
canoe nearby was already craning 
his neck at some object across the 
lake, perhaps half a mile. 

Bobbie was calling in an excited 
whisper to Sally to look at the moose, 
and then I saw the creature, a spike- 
horn bull, wading in the shallow 
water eating lily buds. Quite at 
home he pursued his breakfast undis- 
turbed by us (we were silent and not 
near) as though he knew the law 
protected him until the first of Octo- 
ber. Of course, he had nothing to 
fear from us at any time, we were 
not hunting spike-horns, but health 
and happiness. 

For several minutes the canoes 
stole toward him, as he was on the 
very spot where we were to land. 
Then, realising the continued ap- 
proach of the strangers, he bestirred 
himself a bit, turned out of the 
water, shook the moisture from his 




glistening coat and trotted along 
the portage trail till out of sight; 
then, as Nimrod announced later, 
when studying the tracks, he swung 
off into a thicket. 

Third Lake proved uneventful; 
then a two-mile carry. Fourth Lake 
was punctuated by a bivouac lunch 
at the beginning of the next carry. 
The sun was hot now and had roused 
to a busy hum all the tiny voices of 
the forest, but although we knew 
animals big and little were in the 
neighbourhood, probably observing 
us at the moment, we saw nothing 
but tracks. 

Fifth Lake took most of the after- 
noon, a monotonous dipping of pad- 
dles. The last carry was through a 
treacherous bog and then into the 
Home Lake and Te-vis-ca-bing two 
miles away. The evening shadows 
were gathering, nature had thrown 
a bewitching peace on the stretches 
of water, woods and sky, an occa- 
sional jumping fish caused a sweet 
glad note as it plashed back to its 
home, and then rang out the weird 
call of the loon. LLLLLa-lllllloooo, 
LLLLLLLa-lllllloo, lilla-loo, loo — 



the echoes took it up and sent it 
back as a welcome to us from 
their world, the world we all loved. 
Thus we came to Te-vis-ca-bing, 
offering shelter and camp-fire hos- 
pitality, its outlines showing in the 
half-light of a rising moon. Even 
as we looked, two red eyes shot 
forth — a light had been made from 
within. 

Good — ^we thought. Creche and 
the Cook have arrived, and all goes 
well for a start on the trail 
to-morrow. We were all keenly impa- 
tient of any roof but a canvas one, 
and in the woods where one takes 
only necessities, to be separated from 
the supplies is like a caravan in the 
desert without water, a steamer in 
mid-ocean without coal. 

Our satisfaction, alas, was short 
lived. We soon found that Clifford, 
an Indian game warden, whom our 
thoughtful host had informed of our 
coming, had started the glowing wel- 
come of the hearth, and Creche with 
our precious supplies was still an 
unknown quantity. So was the 
Cook, but a cook without cookables 
does not count. 



«9Hiltltf^|l«Mllt«i 





CANUCK S TRICK 




OOD was the important 
question. 

The cabin was well- 
furnished, but being 
new, it held no hope of 
left-overs from the year 
before. Clifford produced a little 
coffee from his pack, all he had, and 
we hesitated to deplete the scanty 
store of beans and bacon in his camp 
on the next lake. So we waited 
*' with both ears hung out of the win- 
dow" as Sally expressed it, and 
pretended we were not hungry. 
It was nearly ten o'clock. " What 



can have become of the-boys ? " had 
comprised our host's remarks at 
quarter hour intervals ever since 
dark, and he was considering a search 
party when Nimrod suggested the 
old device of firing three shots in case 
they might have missed the road. 
Soon a feeble halloo called us all to 
the door, and behold — the Cook, a 
very lame and tired old man hob- 
bling toward us, alone, with not so 
much as a Uneeda biscuit in his 
hand. 

To our questions, tumbled one 
after another, "Where is Creche? 
Where is the wagon? What did you 
do with the horses? Is there any- 
thing wrong ? " The Cook sat heavily 
on a chair, took the proffered coffee 

and remarked that he'd "be if" 

he knew or cared where Creche was, 
that the horses were safe till morning, 
picketed in a little clearing, he did 
not rightly know how far as not 
knowing the road he had "travelled 
a bit," which being interpreted means 
he was lost. His story, sifted, 
smoothed out, and pieced together, 
was this: 

About three o'clock, Creche while 



tightening some ropes on the load 
discovered that a big brown canvas 
roll was missing. He told the Cook 
to drive on, that the road was plain 
and not more than three miles far- 
ther, while he would run the back 
trail. He said he thought the 
bundle must have worked loose 
while crossing that stretch of 
corduroy in the swamp. " It's 
a wonder a feller kept teeth in 
his head, let alone bundles on 
a wagon," and with that he had 
departed. 

The Cook, on a strange rough road 
with strange horses (canoemen sel- 
dom know much about horses), soon 
decided he had had enough, and 
taking advantage of a little meadow 
he had picketed the tired beasts and 
left them to feed as best they could, 
while he set out for the cabin. Dark- 
ness soon obliterated the occasional 
blazing on a tree that marked the 
road, and he had the prospect of 
wandering about all night, within 
half a mile of us, when the gunshots 
enabled him to get his bearings. 

At daybreak George and Arthur 
went for the wagon and returned 





with it in time for us to have 
a substantial breakfast. Thus 
cheered, we counted off the boxes 
and bundles hoping that Creche 
might have been "mistaken," as we 
politely put it. Alas, this time he 
had spoken the truth. There was a 
big brown canvas roll missing, and 
it was — mine. 

In an excess of thriftiness, I had 
put into it all things necessary for 
my use in the tent — bedding, cloth- 
ing, toilet articles, everything that 
represented my personal comfort and 
independence. No one had a surplus 
from which to supply me. There 
was no question. The bundle must 
be found. 

I knew it had crossed the Ottawa 
for I had seen it. " Poor Creche, he 
may have to travel the whole of the 
forty-five miles to the River. That 
bundle must weigh nearly a hundred 
pounds. He never could carry it all 
the way back in one day," I said, 
adding " How would you like to do 
it, George?" For that person's face 
wore a quizzical look I could not 
understand. He was packing am- 
munition in a bag for Bobbie 



and waited until the top was se- 
cured before answering. 

George always was deliberate and 
spoke in low tones, wasting no words 
— as though game was near. 

" No need to worry about Nate, 
He won't hurt himself. Likely won't 
see that bundle afore he gets to the 
River." 

A snake-like suspicion darted 
through my sympathy for the absent 
Creche — the River, a girl in white 
waving farewell, a torrent of bad 
French under a window. 

" Was there a dance at Trois Lacs 
last night, George? " 

"Not as I knows of." 

"To-night, perhaps?" 

George's eyes betrayed slow sur- 
prise, then twinkled. 

" No 'm. To-morrow night the 
Frenchies have a blow out. ' ' 

To-morrow night! Keep us wait- 
ing for three days. He would never 
dare. I dismissed the idea as pre- 
posterous. Surely he was liable to 
appear at any moment. 

We spent the day watching, wait- 
ing, fuming. My thoughts alter- 
nated between sympathy for poor 



292 



bundle-burdened Creche, walking 
ninety miles, more or less, and indig- 
nation at his possible perfidy. Being 
a guest, I said nothing. Our host 
openly berated him as stupid, care- 
less, lazy, but had no inkling of 
ulterior causes that might have ex- 
plained his continued absence. 

That night we determined not to 
lose another day while waiting for 
Creche. 

" He is as watched for, as a truant 
lover, ' ' said Sally almost jerking down 
the shade that had been left up so 
that the lamp-light might shine out 
as a beacon. 

Bobbie decided to move all the 
paraphernalia possible to our first 
camp on White Lake, known for its 
big fish, and get it ready, and with 
the guides he spent the day doing 
this. There is much to be done to 
prepare a " permanent " camp, which 
is to be lived in for several days. A 
temporar}^ camp is a one-night stand. 
Trees must be chopped, tents put 
up, a fire-place made for cooking, 
very elaborate, after the Adirondack 
manner, with stones and live logs; 
and, not to be forgotten, a landing 



place for the canoes. The more 
experienced a canoeman is the better 
care he takes of his fragile craft. The 
originator of that old adage, "an 
ounce of prevention" etc., must have 
been a canoeist. 

Nimrod and I arranged with Clif- 
ford and another Indian who was 
quartered at his camp, to make an 
early start for Loon Lake to visit 
an echo cave of repute among the 
Mangasippi Indians. To my ques- 
tion, "How far?" I got answer: 

"Three lakes — two little portages 
— a big one. Across Loon Lake two, 
three mile; quite a piece, walk to 
cave. Lady can do it; walk quick; 
paddle quick; no pack; one canoe; 
Clifford come to-morrow — sun up." 

To feel really intimate with a day 
one must greet it at birth. So subtle 
and elusive is the dawn's language, 
limited and elemental — like all youth 
— only three king notes separate the 
tranquil spaces of increasing light — 
form, colour and lastly, sound. 

Four figures in a canoe, gently 
moving through the rushes of a tiny 
stream that joined Home Lake with 
Next Lake, did not seem to disturb 



294 



the harmony; left not so much 
trace as a cow moose trotting along 
a game trail and stopping at the 
ribbon of water for a morning drink. 
We crossed the tracks, clearly seen 
on the sandy bottom, and so fresh 
that the water had not obliterated 
them. Just a gracious bowing of 
the water grass, as we slipped over it, 
a soft swish as it rose and the scene 
was as before our passing. On the 
banks, often within arm's reach on 
either side, hung ripe sarvis berries 
and brilliant yew and holly still 
glistening with frosty dew. All was 
softness, brilliancy, mystery, peace; 
I could have laid my cheek on the 
bosom of that morning scene and 
been lulled forever in a sweet con- 
tent, so beautiful was it, so inde- 
scribably satisfying. Only in a canoe 
could it be possible to thus approach 
and move in nature. 

The sun rose to the eight o'clock 
position and the mood changed. 
Quiet yet but no longer hushed 
or reverent, we debarked to 
avoid some rapids that emptied 
into Next Lake. Once more in the 
canoe, the Indians at bow and stern, 



paddling, Nimrod got out his sketch 
book to perpetuate for future refer- 
ence, a gorgeous yellow mushroom, 
probably poisonous, and I employed 
the time with a fishing-rod securing 
four wall-eyed pike for the camp 
table. One of them was spawned 
and grew and grew to a goodly three 
pounds to become part of history, 
for it furnished a note in Nimrod 's 
journal that it weighed three pounds 
and its "stomach was full of craw- 
fish." 

The following lake was rather rough 
under a rising wind. We paddled 
fast across it, too fast for fishing. It 
was evident that Clifford was anxious 
to reach Loon Lake when the wind 
increased. But we had not half 
crossed the long portage when dark 
clouds began to gather, the day 
had grown rough and masculine, full 
of energy and menace and when we 
came finally to Loon Lake the waves, 
gathering force from a three-mile 
sweep of open water, were rolling in- 
shore vigorously. We had difficulty in 
getting launched, a fierce gust of 
wind threw us back on shore, and 
Clifford had to spring into the shallow 




water to save the canoe from some 
rocks. He looked at the storm- 
clouded sky, the rolling white-capped 
waves, at Nimrod, and finally at me; 
but we said nothing, not realising 
as he did, the danger of such a sea in 
a heavily laden canoe. Besides to 
turn back or give up is the last thing 
to commend itself to us. 

Cat-like he jumped into the bow, 
and the two paddlers battled against 
the waves for the open. The wind 
storm increased. The white-crested 
waves rose higher and higher. We 
were drenched with the spray and 
began to ship water, no light matter 
when the gunwale was barely three 
inches from the water line. Then 
the black raincloud burst, emptied 
itself in a deluge, and we were fairly 
caught in a perilous place. 

The Indians exercised all their 
skill, fortunately great, in keeping 
the canoe in the wind. But the craft 
was filling and nothing apparently 
to bale with. 

"Can you swim?" I shouted to 
Clifford above the gale. He shook 
his head without turning around, 
his eyes glued on the approaching 




WE BALED AND BALED WITH OUR FOOLISH UTENSILS 



billow that almost rose over him. 
With a skilful turn of the paddle 
he poked the nose of the little canoe 
up through it. 

"Can you swim?" I avsked of the 
stern paddler. Another shake of the 
head. Incredible! these men living 
thus precariously on the water, and 
not able to swim! I blush to confess 
that I was very inexpert. Only 
Nimrod to save us all. The canoe 
was rapidly filling. It must be baled 
out soon or we should sink. 
Nimrod and I cast about with our 
eyes for something, anything with 
which to bale. No other part but 
our eyes moved, for we all were 
balancing ourselves to a hair in that 
cockleshell. 

Nimrod spied a tomato tin, 
brought to boil water for tea, and 
I bethought me of the rubber drink- 
ing cups in my pocket. Rapidly 
with as little motion as possible we 
baled and baled with our foolish 
utensils. It was a fight of endurance. 
The waves were gradually drifting 
as to shore, if we could but keep the 
frail craft from capsizing or sinking 
for a little longer. The wind was 



i300 



increasing. It seemed hopeless, when 
the downpour stopped as suddenly as 
it had begun; and before we could 
manage to land, far from where 
we wanted to go, the sun grinned out 
at us, as though it were a huge joke, 
and he wished to say: "I've come 
out to dry you off. It does n't 
matter." 

So it is, out-of-doors, the elements 
are somewhat rough and inconsider- 
ate playfellows sometimes, but one 
must accept them with all one's puny 
strength, or not play the game — live 
in cities and forget the gods. 

When finally a dry match was 
found, a fire built — Nimrod has a 
record on one-match fires with wet 
wood — and as we stood around it 
drying clothes and eating lunch, I 
was received into the order of 
canoeists, having successfully passed 
through the initiation. 

Clifford said something in Indian 
to his friend. Nimrod, understand- 
ing a little, looked at him enquir- 
ingly. "I said, Squaw all right. No 
afraid! bad water, very bad. She 
no cry! Take her anywhere." And 
I felt that honours perhaps when 



only partially deserved are sweetest, 
for I was afraid. 

Determined not to be balked we 
"did" the cave by a long tramp 
through the woods. The wind and 
waves had subsided under the influ- 
ence of the evening calm, and the 
return journey was made under as 
great a charm as the morning. 

But its fabric was different: not 
promise but memories was the woof, 
and the warp held threads of gold 
instead of silver, of gold and copper 
and black; and of purple, the em- 
blem of experience. 

The next morning we ate the wall- 
eyed pike and waited for Creche. 

But, since I was the one inconven- 
ienced, I insisted that we ought not 
to wait for him longer, that we move 
to White Lake and let Creche follow. 
Secretly I felt sure that he would 
appear before the day was over, since 
the night previous was the" Frenchies' 
ball"; but the spirit of charity was 
still warm within me and I refrained 
from giving reasons for my expressed 
belief. 

" Since Mrs. Nimrod seems to have 
a special wireless on Creche, and 



3°-: 




knows he is coming to-day, let us 
start," pleaded Sally, coming to my 
aid, and it was so ordered. 

As the camp was made and already 
provisioned and we had only per- 
sonal luggage, which meant running 
the trail but twice, once for that and 
once for the canoes, we could afford 
to start late. It was about eleven 
o'clock; Sally and Nimrod and I, 
each in a canoe with some luggage 
and a guide paddling, had already 
pushed out from the landing when 
we heard our host's shout of joy 
from the cabin and, like great ugly 
two-headed birds we floated — again 
waiting for Creche. 

We could hear Bobbie's by no 
means courteous orders addressed 
to the camp boy to " shut up and 
hurry up." Then Creche appeared, 
a black ant crawling down the steep 
bank to the landing, with a huge 
brown bundle on his back, my thrice 
precious and welcome belongings. 
He threw it into a canoe and pushed 
off. The Cook got into his canoe 
and pushed off; but still George 
waited on shore with the last canoe 
ready for our host, who came not. 



In silence we waited. The woods had 
taught Sally and me not to exercise 
our feminine prerogative of speech 
on all occasions in or out of season, 
and it was characteristic of these 
men that no one asked a question of 
Creche as to his recent whereabouts. 
It would all come out in time, and 
there was plenty of time for that, 
but not to get started. 

George glanced twice up the bank 
toward the cabin, which indicated 
his state of mind, for he never showed 
emotion. 

"Crosby's with the boss," re- 
marked our camp boy, laconically as 
he too rested his paddle with the 
motionless fleet. 

Crosby was a teamster from Trois 
Lacs. So this much we knew, our 
canny Creche had not carried a hun- 
dred pounds forty- five miles, but 
had ridden in state. He had, how- 
ever, a blotched and bleary look 
which indicated loss of sleep and 
bad rum. 

Our host now appeared and con- 
cealed whatever his feelings might 
be with his usual genial expression. 
Being a man of affairs, he did not 





let a detail swamp the whole. Our 
comfort was now assured, Creche 
could be dealt with later, and it 
really was a glorious day to start on 
a pleasure trip. So his voice rang 
out cheerily: " I tell you, Mrs. Nim- 
rod, you will have need of that tackle 
from your bundle to-morrow. We 
will show you fishing that is fishing, 
and you will have to hold up the 
honour of the family and catch a 
record breaker." 

Bobbie's generous heart was torn 
with conflicting desires, his own 
natural ambition to catch the "big- 
gest ever," or for Sally to do so, or 
for his guest. Nimrod refused to fish 
and I had only been led into angling 
by the assurance that I should catch 
a "whale." 

We halted at the end of the first 
carry for luncheon, and then was 
produced by our camp boy a neat 
fabric of half-truths that would have 
done credit to the most skilled news- 
gathering reporter. 

He had missed the bundle, yes — 
he had felt it his duty at any cost to 
find it. He had travelled until it 
was dark. He was near that old 



deserted shanty, so he went to sleep, 
without supper, of course; was up 
again at daybreak. He looked and 
looked for it all the way to the River. 
He was puzzled, for he was sure he 
had noticed it on the wagon. It 
was getting well on towards noon; 
he had to have food, and besides he 
might learn of the bundle being 
picked up (clever Creche) so he 
crossed the River to Trois Lacs. 
He spent some time enquiring 
(quite true), and knowing that 
even if he found the bundle, 
he could not get far on his 
way that day, and being tired, he 
decided to stay in "Trollaks" and 
start at daybreak. This he did, 
though a little late as he overslept 
himself (twice clever Creche to tell 
so much truth) and he had gone 
about four miles when it suddenly 
occurred to him that the road here 
had a short cut, which was worse 
travelling, but he might have taken 
it, he did not rightly remember doing 
so as the Cook was telling one of his 
yams about then. So he thought 
he might take the short cut now and 
see, and there, by "the head of the 




blessed St. Stephen," if he did not 
discover that " divil of a roll" not 
a hundred yards from the main road. 
It had rained hard in the night and 
the bundle was partially soaked in 
spite of its waterproof canvas (alas 
too true, poor me). He tried to 
carry it, but it now weighed fully one 
hundred and thirty pounds. He was 
mighty strong but there were limits, 
he would not carry that much forty- 
five miles for any man "alive or 
dead," not he, much as he would 
like to please "the boss." So back 
he went to Trois Lacs to get a team. 
He found that Crosby was going to 
haul some furniture to Te-vis-ca-bing 
soon anyway, so he finally got Crosby 
started that very day and he went 
as far as the bundle, and saw it 
reloaded. Then as he had done the 
best he could, and could not hurry 
matters any further, he thought he 
might as well attend to a little bus- 
iness in "Trollak." He promised 
Crosby to meet him at the lumber 
camp the following morning at sun- 
rise, which he did, and here they 
were, having come through in a 
hurry. 



" Why had he left Crosby the day 
before?" Why he did not mind 
telHng, not a bit, not he. He 
was not needed anyhow, so he 
thought he would slip back and 
take his girl to a dance. If he 
wanted to do that and travel the 
rest of the night, he guessed that 
was his affair (thrice clever Creche, 
the actual truth). 

The story seemed plausible, in 
any event what could Bobbie do 
now? It was past, and we had the 
satisfying present. How good it 
was, that dinner under the trees! 

A camp-fire blazed a hundred feet 
from the cook-fire, with a folding table 
and camp chairs placed for dinner 
between them. Oh the joy, the sweet 
peace of the camper's life! No prob- 
lems come to vex him save the hour 
for dinner. There is no world but 
that of the bone and the muscle. 
Kings may die, nations rise and 
crumble, lives come in and go out; 
it matters not. The rumble of the 
straining world sounds not for him. 
The iron horse comes not, nor does 
that modern Ariel, the Marconigraph, 
seek speech with him. 



3o8 



Tree and bird and beast, hot sun, 
cold winds, rushing torrents, giant 
rocks and mighty distances; these 
are the gods he worships with pain 
and fear, with strength and joy. 

While dipping my hands in the 
lake I reached over and kissed the 
water, and the widening circles from 
the touch took the message, " There 
is no spot in the whole earth where 
I would rather be than here." 

I never should have known the 
whole truth about that bundle but 
for the strategy of George. Drinking 
in camp is, of course, tabooed; but 
George saw that Creche had not 
emptied the whiskey flask brought 
from Trois Lacs, so he kept urging 
the willing camp-boy to finish it as 
the evening wore on. One by one 
all went to bed except George and 
the talkative Creche, whose tongue 
now was running three ways at once, 
English, French and Indian. Our 
tent was close by and while Nimrod 
snugly slept on his rubber bed, I, 
wrapped in my recovered but still 
damp blankets, heard the truth of 
their disappearance. 

Creche' s language was not print- 



able but his thought was clear 
enough. A few of the fragments 
sufficed to lay bare the undisciplined 
creature's perfidy. 

" promised Toinette I'd come 

— she's la belle fille, such a shape — 
prettiest foot on ze Ottawa, she's 
my girl — couldn't have zat — Fran- 
cois dancing with her, no by 

why she's soft as mush on him — I 
said by ze head of St. Stephen, I'll 
be zere — she laugh — skrrrrrch — but 
Creche he savez a way, he dropped 
zat bundle soft-like, didn't want to 
hurt it — made — shure it was hers — 
he he, women hates to miss zeir 
things — so as I'd be shure to have to 
go back — savez? I made shure it 
was zere all right, but Creche did 
not bother it — ^no, no — he he — ^I tell 
you my girl was sprised to see 
Creche — she gave me a warm wel- 
come — and I fixed ze Frenchy. 
Shrrrch — ^if I did keep 'em waiting 
three days — ^let 'em wait — ^by ze 
head of St. Stephen, Toinette's " 

But I had heard enough; without 
remorse, without appreciation of his 
treachery, proud of his tricks, what 
could one do with such a cave 



dweller? Thankful that he had not 
given "Toinette" many things in 
the bundle that she would have 
liked, I tossed the matter aside 
and took up the thistledown trail. 





CONCERNING A NEW ACQUAINTANCE 
THE MUSCALONGE 




HIS is the record of a 
scoffer downed, a scep- 
tic converted. To hold 
one end of a line while 
a small wriggling thing 
is struggling stupidly 
to get away at the other end, and 
further complicated by wetness and 
sliminess and sun-burnt nose, had 
never appealed to me as either amus- 
ing or worth the doing. To be 
sure I knew that some persons prefer 
syncopated music to classic, yellow 
journalism to conservative, it being 
largely a matter of education in 



31- 



taste, and I was quite willing to 
concede that I might be in the 
syncopated yellow stage of angling, 
and, like most syncopated yellow 
lovers, had no desire for change. 

However, fate in the guise of Bob- 
bie, forced the education. On a cold 
grey day with an east wind, sharp as 
needles, I was placed in the middle 
of a canoe, a stone was in the bow, 
and Bert in the stem, paddling. In 
my hands was an eight-ounce steel 
rod with a contraption on the cork 
handle which was called " a patent, 
adjustable, automatic reel." On it 
was wound two hundred feet of 
" three-ply, double- snelled Pierce 
peerless suprema " line finished with 
a "ruby red" hook, two feet of 
"gloriosa" gut, a three -dished 
spooner, an additional "Daisy fly," 
a "merrivale sinker" and a "none- 
such float." If you do not under- 
stand, it is no matter, neither did I. 

There was also a villainous looking 
hook on a long handle, called a gaff, 
and a stout stick to "finish him." 
A fur coat and a foot-warmer were 
the mollifying adjuncts. 

I was expected to go slowly pad- 



dling about, trailing this gaudy string 
for all the long hours of this raw, 
repellent day and evolve from it a 
"happy time." 

I let out line twenty, forty, eighty 
feet, and reeled it up again. I caught 
water grass, snags and even stones. 
I broke the Pierce peerless line twice 
and lost the Daisy fly. Two hours 
went by in this sportive way. A 
fine rain which "made 'em bite," 
permeated the atmosphere and our 
clothing, and increased the sullen 
dreariness, I was chilled through 
and through and smiled sneeringly 
at the possibility of there being a 
Wagnerian method of angling. I 
longed for the glowing warmth of 
the camp-fire, but refused to go in 
with a blank record. Fish had been 
known to get on hooks, why not on 
mine? It could get on, I mean bite, 
even if I could not keep it. White 
Lake was the home of the Musca- 
longe, Sally had caught one, yea, 
in that very place, that weighed * 'over 
twenty pounds." It had taken a 
good hour for her to tell about it 
last night. 

Five hours of this happy time had 




passed and no bite. That time-worn 
recipe for a sleigh ride must have 
been created by an incipient angler, 
* 'wrap up in furs, put the feet in ice- 
water and sit in a snow drift." Bert 
pulled down his hat still further on 
the wind side and remarked: 

" They're most done biting for to- 
day. ('Most done' forsooth, with 
what had never been.) We might 
go around this bay once more. It 
looks a good place." 

Somewhere doubtless the sun was 
setting gloriously, Phoebus' s chariot 
was visible triumphantly pursuing 
its brilliant western track, but here 
on the little bay, edged with jack 
pines, only deepening shadows told 
of its progress. Conscientiously I 
held the rod in the approved fashion, 
and, to forget the aggressive discom- 
fort, had sent my thought far away 
to southern Italy to a certain moon- 
lit marble terrace perfumed by 
orange groves in bloom and musicked 
by the voluptuous lapping of blue 
waves upon a glistening shore. 

Suddenly a strong tug ran along the 
line, and up my spine, then a short 
tug sent a kindred electric thrill. 



It was unlike anything I had felt 
before, instantly every nerve was 
alert. There was no need to be told 
— I had a bite at last! 

Bert's excited face was in front 
of me. 

"Hook 'im well," he cautioned. 
" Now reel — gently." 

The line grew taut, I could not 
reel. 

"Ease him up, or you'll lose 'im," 
coached Bert. 

The reel hummed and whirred as 
it fed out. 

" Reel 'im up, or he will get too 
much head," now came the mandate. 
I felt rather helpless. How was one 
to tell what was going on under the 
water ? 

I began to reel. The strain was 
tremendous. It seemed as though 
I must be towing the whale that had 
been promised. 

"He's a whopper" announced the 
expert, viewing my efforts critically. 
" Must be twenty pounds. You'll 
have to play him well. Now watch 
— he'll dash away any time. Be 
ready to go with him. Quick — reel 
out!" 




The line spun through my fingers, 
cutting the gloves like wire. Again 
the laborious taking in line with 
many a reel out, exciting but irri- 
tating. I had long since forgotten 
the cold, the rain or anything but 
the unseen will that operated under 
the veiling water. 

At last I managed to coax that 
muscalonge within twenty feet and 
we both saw it. To me it seemed 
almost as big as the canoe and to 
land it with that tackle, absurd. 

"He's a gee socker," cried Bert, 
" and awful foxy. He's working us 
near the rocks. Don't let 'im get 
around one and cut the line " 

"Hurry, Bert and get the canoe 
around the boulder!" I cried des- 
pairingly. " Hurry, he is doing it — 
Oh, pshaw!" and I collapsed in a 
heap as the tension was suddenly 
released and what was left of the 
line floated to the surface. My 
"biggest ever" had won. 

I returned to the camp circle 
empty handed but full of experience. 
My education was progressing, I was 
beginning to understand some of the 
motives in this Wagnerian harmony 



— surprise, anticipation, combat, 
despair. 

The following morning found me 
eager to leani more — exultation and 
triumph for example; but that day 
taught me only patience and per- 
severance. It too was rainy and 
cold and deemed to be "a bad day 
for fish." 

Then came the day of days. 

Bert and I left camp early accom- 
panied by a composite prayer that 
we catch something, if only a "little 
one." The exhibition of so much 
energy unrequited was beginning to 
get on the camp nerves. 

Bert worked the canoe along the 
west shore of White Lake and back 
again. It was a clear day and noon- 
day fishing was "no good," so we 
returned to camp for luncheon. The 
Cook only was in charge, all the others 
had gone off hunting. The woods were 
full of game, moose, deer, wolves and 
small fry. There was a kind of 
brooding reproof in the silence of my 
solitary meal of canned stuff. The 
camp relied upon me to supply fresh 
fish and to make a record catch and I 
had not contributed so much as a 



minnow; instead, I was several Daisy 
flies and gloriosa catgut to the 
bad. I began to think of the after- 
noon with that heavy do-or-die heart 
clutch that prefaces the making of 
a speech. What if I should fail . 

The Cook was telling Bert about 
a wonderful fish which a "party he 
guided had caught, a thirty-pounder" 
on a pin-hook or some such combina- 
tion. Ruthlessly I interrupted him. 

"Come Bert, let's get to work." 

If only I could finish up the bus- 
iness honourably and enjoy myself 
once again in the unenlightened way 
of a week ago before muscalonge 
had entered my horizon. 

It came, the reward, about five 
o'clock in the shape of a sufficiently 
big fellow. For two hours I had 
reeled in, let out, given his head, 
coaxed him away from rocks and 
played him with what skill I had 
acquired from my failures. The 
tricks he tried to play, the many times 
he almost cut the line, or snagged it, 
I would like to relate, but spare you. 
I was almost as much exhausted as 
he when the big fellow was finally 
brought to the boat and gaffed. 




ii9. 



There is a fisherman's rule, I 
believe, that for a game fish, an 
ounce of tackle to a pound of fish 
is fair sport. I had caught my first 
game fish with less than half of this 
allowance. Nearly eighteen pounds 
of muscalonge and exceedingly lively 
weight at that, with an eight-ounce 
rod and very light hooks and eyes — 
I mean the gloriosa, suprema, none- 
such adjuncts. 

And behold now the wonder: I 
seemed to hold the Open Sesame and 
the fish fairly begged to be caught. 
A fourteen ' pounder ' was . added 
in another hour's work, and a care- 
less twelve- pound muscalonge got 
on the hook before I could get home. 
We put it back none the worse, as we 
had enough food for camp use and 
no wish to be called by a little name 
of three letters that begins with h 
and ends with g. 

In this wise did I learn the angler's 
secret, and to faintly appreciate how 
one might become enthralled with 
the piscatorial symphony; and freed 
from a self-appointed obligation, once 
more returned to me the beauty of 
an autumn evening. Again the 




l32f 



moumful call of the loon greeted, 
and as we glided campwards every 
little cove of the tree-shadowed 
shore seemed to harbour some 
thirsty animal that might mo- 
mentarily step out of the dark woods 
to the water. 





SEVERAL THINGS ABOUT 
MOOSE 

AVE you ever tramped 
through sodden woods 
all day in the rain? If 
not, you have indeed 
missed something inde- 
scribable. The water 
laden branches send inquisitive show- 
ers that tease, like the questions of 
a prosecuting attorney, the places 
that one cannot protect, and bur- 
dened and clumsy with rubber cloth- 
ing, one falls rather than climbs over 
and around obstacles. After a time, 
unless it is cold, one grows accus- 
tomed to the general clamminess 



and remembers only that it is a good 
day to hunt. Then there are no dry 
leaves to craunch and rustle under 
foot and the wild things stay 
quiet, unless disturbed, and if 
they do 'travel' leave a legible 
account of their doings in the 
tracks. 

It was the day after the musca- 
longe episode, and having acquitted 
myself honourably, though painfully 
of fish, I was free to join Nimrod on 
his daily prowls for what he could 
see. Bert went with us carrying 
a small back pack of midday food. 

Our host had set forth early in the 
morning with George to locate a 
good camp ground, as he proposed 
to move from Camp Muscalonge 
still deeper into the woods where 
now were rising the notes of the 
moose. The last of September was 
upon us. The moose calves were old 
enough to take care of themselves, 
and the lady moose, no longer averse 
to society, were practising their love 
songs to which the bulls lent no 
ungallant ear. 

That night we were going to ' call ' 
for moose and we hoped to discover 




32 3 



the whereabouts of some big bull 
who might answer our summons. 

A good ' caller ' is rare, even among 
the guides, and our men had ob- 
served Nimrod with only half- 
concealed amusement as he procured 
some birch bark, fashioned it into a 
cornucopia, sewed it with roots of 
black spruce, and finally, hoodoo 
of all hoodoos, decorated it with 
a big moose head! 

Clifford, the best caller on the 
Mangasippi, gave him the love notes 
of the cow moose and the challenging 
call of one bull to another. He did 
this not as a teacher to a pupil, 
but politely, without expectation of 
result. At the cabin Nimrod had 
diligently practised and soon revived 
his former accomplishment, and now 
that we were in moose country, 
longed to show his skill. Bobbie 
also had practised on Nimrod 's horn 
and the guides openly sneered. 

"That would drive all the game 
out of the country." George voiced 
his opinion candidly, but Bobbie 
only shrugged his shoulders. He 
could afford to let them laugh, as 
events proved. 




It was a misty morning before 
sunrise when the canoes stole out 
from the landing at Camp Musca- 
longe and took their several ghostly 
ways, Bobbie's west, Sally's south, 
and ours north toward the head- 
waters of White Lake. The canoe 
was light, Nimrod at the bow 
paddle and Bert at the stem. An 
hour's silence, broken only by the 
lilililiooo of the loon, and the dip, 
dip, of the paddles brought us nearly 
four miles to the boggy willow 
marshes of the outlet. Beyond were 
stretches of ragged pines that were 
outlined only as black masses in the 
half-light. 

What a weird place it was, beau- 
tiful and unreal as the shadow land 
of poets. The silence was the silence 
that bound the world before humans 
were. It gripped one with a sense 
of finality as though never could it 
change, and yet of suspense, for 
knowledge told that outside this 
witched circle of water and trees 
the world was in motion, the sun 
was marking its allotted course, and 
the animals too were astir, drawing 
over the country their accustomed 



3^5 



diagrams that spelled quest for 
food. 

So portentous did the grey 
silence seem, as we waited and 
listened, that I longed for a release 
from it. My breath came in 
shortened gasps, and yet when 
Nimrod raised the horn to his 
lips and shrieked forth a moosely 
summons, it seemed a profanation. 
Another fifteen minutes of silence, 
every second of which my imagin- 
ation made a living picture of a huge 
creature with eyes aflame and smoke 
curling from his nostrils, coming full 
charge down the runway at which 
we waited, and dashing into the 
shallow water straight for our canoe, 
an avenging spirit scattering retri- 
bution upon the hardy mortals who 
thus dared to tamper with nature. 
But the grey silence continued. 

Nimrod sent another call of un- 
earthly resonance echoing to the 
outer world. It came back to our 
magic circle mockingly. Slowly the 
light etched detail into the surround- 
ings. At the third call, I no longer 
feared that the snorting avenger 
would come, but that he would not, 




or even a spike-hom to say "how 
d'ye do." 

Fifty minutes had gone by when 
a noise like the snapping of a twig 
in the woods sent an electric thrill 
of tensest listening along the canoe. 
But we heard no more. Doubtless 
a bull had drawn near, also listening, 
not quite sure, perhaps the voice was 
a little strange. 

Nimrod raised another call and 
we distinctly heard a big animal 
getting away as fast as it could. 
That last call certainly had not been 
right. It might have been too close 
to the other, or it needed an addi- 
tional note, or not so much, or was 
too loud. Undoubtedly in some way 
moose etiquette had been violated. 

The day had come and with it 
the necessity of another kind of 
hunting — the stalk. Quietly, as ever, 
we landed, turned the canoe bottom 
up, for it was beginning to rain, 
and searched about for the track of 
our fugitive moose. Not that there 
was any hope of seeing him, for he 
would go miles before stopping, but 
for information, a natural desire to 
know his size. When we found it, 



the track was that of a big bull and 
after all not very much alarmed. He 
had gone away quite leisurely and 
as this was probably his home local- 
ity, might be induced to return that 
evening, under favourable circum- 
stances. We found a runway evi- 
dently in present use and followed 
far. 

The rain was not energetic, but 
pervading. We paid no attention 
to it ; we could not and go on. 
There are two ways of treating dis- 
comfort. Fight it and it conquers; 
ignore it and it is subdued. 

It is wonderful how a huge animal 
like the moose can go through the 
woods, between and under branches. 
One could almost believe that he had 
some device of folding up his horns, 
as the Arab his tent, so easily does 
he go anywhere the width and 
height of his body will permit. The 
trail was thick with moose sign. 
Tramp, tramp, drip, drip, a misstep 
and down into a muddy hole I went; 
no matter, a degree or two more 
of wetness. As Nimrod was help- 
ing me up, a dozen pounds extra 
of water-proof clothing not being 




conducive to agility, he remarked to 
Bert; "This is a queer hole to be 
in the middle of the trail. See, there 
are moose hairs in the mud. I believe 
it is a wallow." 

Bert returned and the two exam- 
ined the place, as carefully as experts 
would a diamond. 

It was an oblong depression, per- 
haps four feet one way by two feet 
the other, sloping off toward the 
edge. It was in a bed of sandy clay 
and showed the effects of much paw- 
ing and fussing. 

"Believe it is," exclaimed Bert. 
"Never saw one before. Heard of 
'em often — and the last fellow here 
was left-handed." 

"Left-handed?" I repeated, scent- 
ing the picturesque. 

" Yes 'm. Most animals are right- 
handed, jest like us; but now and 
again you'll run across a left-handed 
chap." 

"How can you tell?" 

"Well, partly, it 's the side they 
lie on when the horns are growin' 
and partly it's the way they use their 
horns. Now, you see, that feller 
who was here wasn't very large, 




probably had small horns. But he 
whacked the bushes always to the 
left. See? Have you ever noticed, 
antlers is hardly ever reglar? Right 
or left side is always bigger. 
Now that's according to whether he's 
right or left-handed. If he's left- 
handed the horn is nat' rally smaller 
from being used more and broke 
off " 

" Why not bigger from being devel- 
oped more?" 

Bert looked at me pityingly. 

"Don't work that way." Nim- 
rod, rapidly sketching, was non- 
committal. 

The rain had drizzled itself out 
when we got back to the canoe at 
dark. We decided not to 'call' at 
the outlet that night, but to give the 
big moose until morning to forget 
his alarm, and besides, we wanted 
to try ' jacking ' at midnight. 

Again the silent easeful passage 
through the water, only the monot- 
onous dip of the paddles as a young 
moon hung itself between a mass of 
fluffy clouds and a black horizon 
line. Toward the north were strange 
unstable lights silvering the sky, a 



mere tag end of the aurora borealis, 
but full of suggestion, like the low- 
lidded eyes of a Buddha, It seemed 
to push far away the merely physical 
things, the cramped position, fatigue, 
hunger and general soggy chilliness. 

We were the last to arrive. Sally 
had a thrilling tale about a cow- 
moose and two calves, one a buck 
with little nubbins of horns. She 
had surprised this family group 
quietly feeding on marsh grass in a 
desolate place that had once been a 
smiling forest full of arboreal life, 
but which fire had reduced to a mass 
of fallen timbers with a few naked 
masts. A lumberman's dam several 
miles away had backed up the water 
of a stream so that the whole ruined 
region was submerged two or three 
feet. Fire and water were not here 
the rough jokers one must laugh 
with, but had been converted 
into destroyers by the ingenuity, 
and for the benefit, of money seeking 
man. And the victims, once glorious 
age-old trees, still bore sad witness 
to the power that had wrecked them 
years ago. 

Sally first saw the mother moose 



and her young about half a mile 
off and the place afforded so much 
shelter for a silently moving object 
that Arthur gradually pushed her 
toward them, until not more than 
fifty feet of marsh grass and water 
lay between. There she hid and 
watched, and more and more the 
charm of this life so different from 
her own, so uncomprehended by us, 
held her in sweet excitement. It 
was inspiring as when one comes on 
a sculptured group by Claud ian 
standing on a pedestal amid other 
beautiful things, but so compelling 
attention by its surpassing grace of 
line and modelling, that all else is 
unnoticed, and one is translated to 
another world where only the pure 
tones of harmony are heard. 

For some time the moose fed, 
the only sound being a faint crunch- 
ing of their jaws as the juicy grass 
was gathered in. A lazy ear now 
and again flicked off a fly; the cow 
calf gave her back a comfortable 
rubbing when opportunity offered 
in the shape of a fallen log of con- 
venient height. The bull calf being 
snagged in the flank by a sharp 




stick, and thinking his sister respon- 
sible, made a retahatory lunge at 
her, suggestive of some very human 
little brothers and sisters, which 
shall be nameless. Sister promptly 
got out of the way. Mother, 
unconcerned, calmly continued to 
scratch her head with her left hind 
foot. 

Soon after, however, her attitude 
suddenly changed. She raised her 
head in attention, gave two low 
short grunts to the calves who also 
became alert, and then rapidly 
led them away from that peculiar 
odour, which, being strange, it was 
safe to assume was hostile. A faint 
breeze springing up had disclosed 
Sally's presence, and her Claud ian 
was gone. Had it not really been a 
dream? No, the memory of it was 
too vivid. 

As we all sat for a moment holding 
the picture of the mother group in 
our thoughts, my outward vision 
took note of something not far off 
in the darkness. It was a small 
brilliant orange light that danced 
in the air. It darted up and down 
like a live thing — "Look, what is 



333 ( 



that?" and even as I spoke, Bert 
realising what it was, ran along 
"Broadway," the trail that led to 
our sleeping tents. The first tent 
belonged to the Tevi and it was — 
on fire ! 

We all rushed toward it, but were 
checked half way by a loud report, 
then another. 

"My God" cried Bobbie, "Stand 
back! My box of ammunition — 
there is enough to blow up the whole 
camp! George, Arthur — Bert, stop! " 
he yelled. 

Hardly knowing what to do we 
all halted except Bert. On he kept 
unheeding and amid a fusillade of 
exploding cartridges from Sally's 
shooting belt, he dashed into the 
flaming tent, seized that box of 
ammunition, containing several hun- 
dred rounds, and dragged it forth 
to safety. 

It was a splendid act of courage 
for him, an awful moment of sus- 
pense for us. 

George, who was checked but an 
instant by Bobbie's entreaty, was 
already cutting ropes and tearing 
down the blazing canvas. A few 



cartridges from Bobbie's bed where 
he had thrown his shooting coat 
before dinner, continued to explode, 
and bullets flew about in a 
scattering fire, until Nimrod could 
appear heading his bucket brigade, 
which he had immediately organised, 
pressing us all into service. Every 
available water holder was passed 
along the line, from canvas buckets 
to coffee pot and saucepans. 

Fortunately the woods were wet 
with the day's drizzle. The wreck 
of Bobbie's luxurious canvas home 
was bad enough, but a forest fire 
was far worse. That we strained 
every nerve to avert, and when at 
last all was safe, and the Tevi could 
take stock of the blackened remnants 
of their belongings, we all rejoiced 
that little permanent damage had 
been done except to the tent, which 
having been paraffine- coated to 
make it further waterproof, had been 
literally licked up by the flames until 
there was nothing left. 

A candle lamp left burning had in 
some way slipped from its upright 
position and started the blaze. 

As there were to be two jacking 



335 I 



parties that night, and we had not 
intended starting much before mid- 
night we had wondered how we were 
were going to keep awake, for usually 
the lights on' 'Broadway ' 'went out by 
nine o'clock. But the fire alarm had 
furnished more than ample diver- 
sion and it was after one o'clock 
before Bert announced that the 
canoe was ready and Nimrod and I 
took the languid blessing of the Tevi, 
whose interest in moose for that 
night had given way to the necessity 
of settling themselves in the supply 
tent. 

A jack, as every moose hunter 
knows, is a lantern whose light can be 
turned on or off at will. When a 
moose, summoned by the siren love 
call is heard coming, it is flashed 
directly upon him. The theory being 
that the sudden flare of light fascin- 
ates the big creature, he approaches to 
investigate. He cannot, of course, 
see the humans hiding in the black- 
ness, and then is the moment for 
the man and his gun. 

Of all the perfidious tricks that 
man's superior intelligence plays on 
the animal's superior instinct, this 




seems to be the worst. First to 
entice the bull moose to one by 
means of a love call on a horn, and 
then to bewilder him by a great 
blare of light, exposing him while 
the gunner is in darkness and the 
deed committed, is too much like 
stabbing in the back. It is not even 
"sport," when an animal's chance 
for life depends upon the ability of 
the gunner to hit a six-foot target 
a few feet away. 

However, we were to find that, 
the gunpowder element being 
eliminated, an infuriated bull moose 
at close quarters is no mean ad- 
versary. 

We paddled swiftly to Big Dam 
Lake, the place where Sally had seen 
the moose family. It might easily 
be a favourite resort for others, and 
as this was the beginning of the 
mating season, a suitable place for 
some big bull to be reconnoitring. 
The Tevi had expected to cover the 
Big Dam Lake territory and we were 
going to the outlet, but it occurred 
to us, after we were started that as 
they had decided to remain at home 
we might as well go to what seemed 



to be the best place. The night was 
dark and served our purpose well. 
My carbine lay in the bottom of 
the canoe. We did not intend to 
use it, but I had long ago learned 
not to go far in the woods without 
a gun, if only to summon aid in case 
of accident. 

Bert held the canoe stationary by 
thrusting a paddle into the sand of a 
little beach that ran under a steep 
bank. By the aid of the jack through 
the clear water we could see many 
fresh moose tracks of all sizes on the 
sandy bottom. Undoubtedly it was 
the end of a game trail. 

It seemed a good place to try our 
luck. Nimrod covered the jack and 
got out his elaborately painted horn 
of birch-bark and let off a long call. 
Bert nodded approval. It had the 
right sound. We were not surprised 
nor disappointed that it brought no 
response. These things take time. 
Nearly an hour passed. It seemed a 
whole night, every moment crowded 
with nervous listening. The unimag- 
inative persons we are told, miss 
much of the joys of anticipation; 
they also miss many wild visions of 




impossibilities that they can well do 
without. 

After the fourth call came an 
answer. It was muffled and inde- 
terminate. Bert and Nimrod sig- 
nalled that it could hardly be any- 
thing else but a bull. Then some 
distance off we heard a moose dia- 
logue, a low call, an answering bull 
grunt, then another grunt still far- 
ther away. Then, much nearer, the 
challenging call of one bull to an- 
other. It was answered far away: 
then silence. 

I was greatly stirred by this wood- 
land duet, but Nimrod and Bert 
exchanged puzzled shrugs. Some- 
thing seemed not orthodox. 

Again we heard the challenging 
call of the bull and again the answer, 
much closer. Perhaps it was to be 
our rare privilege to see two bulls 
fighting for the lady's foot or heart. 

The intense listening and excite- 
ment was so great that when the 
report of a gun thundered out, I 
almost jumped out of the canoe. 
If the last trump had sounded I 
could not have been more startled. 
We knew of no other party in that 



region. A second shot made the 
first seem less uncanny and enabled 
us to trace the direction from whence 
it came. There was a tongue of 
higher land that jutted into Big Dam 
Lake. We were on one side of it 
and across this mile strip came a 
third shot. 

"It must be the Tevi! They came 
out after all," exclaimed Nimrod, 
even forgetting to whisper. 

Our feelings were not entirely 
guestly for the moment. That either 
Sally or Bobbie would kill a moose 
in that treacherous way, and that 
in close season, made it necessary for 
us to reconstruct our ideas of them, 
and was sadly depressing. We could 
not accuse them of deliberately en- 
dangering our lives by shooting in 
the dark so close to us, for they 
did not know that we had taken 
their territory; but it was strange 
that they should come out that 
night after all their refusals to do 
so. Altogether, we felt uncomfort- 
able. For the first time we had 
struck grit in our friendship's 
cake. 

Nimrod had the jack light trained 




upon the shore 
every foot. 

"By George, get out of this — 
quick.'' He whispered shrilly to Bert. 

I seemed to hear a thudding of 
hooves and a snort, and then saw 
coming along the trail out of the 
gloom into the bar of light, a mad- 
dened staggering creature that waved 
its blades of horn like chiffon on the 
wind. 

It was then that Bert broke his 
paddle in his haste to pull it from 
the sand and nearly dumped us all 
in the water in the path of that 
onstriding giant. 

"Put a bullet into him, before 
he charges us," hissed Bert as I 
quickly passed him the remaining 
paddle from the bow. I grabbed 
the gun, but hesitated. I did not 
want to kill the Tevi's moose, or any 
moose then, though it did seem a 
difficult place. That wounded bull 
was now just above us on the bank. 
Infuriated with pain and anger he 
thrashed about only waiting to make 
sure of the exact position of his 
enemy, represented by that madden- 
ing light 



341 



The next instant the great black 
bulk charged at us off the high bank 
and crashed into the water along- 
side, with a shower of spray that 
nearly capsized us and put out the 
jack with the jar. The momentum 
sent our canoe rocking away from the 
struggling creature. Bert did won- 
derful work with the paddle, and not 
an instant too soon, for one thrash of 
those horns that were churning the 
water to foam, would have been 
enough to spill us and then we would 
have been in a serious plight. Now 
I was indeed ready to use the gun. 
It was no time to dally, "^ut soon 
it was evident that I need not 
use it. That awful jump, I doubt 
if he knew what he was doing, had 
been the great creature's final throw 
at life. Weaker grew his struggles; 
and the waning moon that . night, 
rising above the black pine hills 
shone, a huge red disc, upon a pair of 
antlers that rose from the muddied 
water almost like the gleaming teeth 
of some nether world demon. 

Quickly we paddled to meet the 
Tevi and to tell them the sequel 
of their moose. How wounded and 




342 



seeking to get away, it had taken a 
familiar runway which had brought 
it to us — to another of those hateful 
gleaming eyes at which it had 
charged with all its failing strength. 
We did not expect to be believed, 
but the tracks in the morning would 
show. Only why could they not 
have waited until the law was off. 
It was only a few days more. 

We had nearly entered the little 
cove where we had located the 
shooting, when a canoe almost slipped 
past us. The two figures in it were 
paddling fast. It was evidently not 
the Tevi. 

" Good evening, " Nimrod chal- 
lenged; "Are you looking for your 
moose? It is around the point." 

The men rested their paddles an 
instant. 

" All right, savez, * ' responded a gruff 
voice, at which Bert said, " Hello, 
Bill, when did you come from Trol- 
laks?" 

To this came an extraordinary 
answer, " Humph, I suppose you 
think it smart to talk, go ahead. 
Who cares. I'll swear it was you." 

"Who is it?" I asked. 



"Oh, Bill's a head-hunter for 
Beans' taxidermist shop." 

In my relief that the Tevi had not, 
in or out of season, decoyed and 
butchered that great beautiful live 
thing, I called out mischievously, 
knowing it would be no easy task 
to pull that hundreds of pounds out 
of the water. 

" You will find him stuck fast in 
the mud, and it serves you right for 
murdering him that way out of 
season." 

I think, but am not sure that this 
feminine thrust was responded to 
by a masculine swear, but our canoes 
were rapidly separating. 

Bobbie never has recovered from 
the shock of our asking him to 
believe that "pipe-dream" of the 
moose that charged the jack-light. 
Sally, more open minded, or more 
politic, gave a good imitation of 
belief. As Creche had to be sent 
back to Te-vis-ca-bing for another 
tent, luckily there, we must still 
delay a day or two in that region, 
and, eager to prove our case, we 
conducted the Tevi to the scene of 
the tragedy. 



344, 



But alas for the cause of 'truth! 
Our proofs had been trampled on 
by the head-hunters in getting out 
their trophy, and the subject of 
jumping moose, or acrobatic moose, 
almost moose at all, diplomati- 
cally ceased to be a matter for camp 
conversation. 





JEST TRAVELLING" IN WATER 
COUNTRY — CRECHE's ULTIMATUM 




NCE in the Rockies a 
Mountaineer met our 
packtrain, and, after 
the customary saluta- 
tion, "How dy," pro- 
pounded this enigmati- 
cal question. 

"Quite an outfit. Are you goin* 
somewheres, or only jest travellin' ? " 
Nimrod debated this distinction 
and finally left the decision to 
his questioner. 

" We are going into the mountains, 
hunting." 

" Oh I see. Jest travellin'. Thought 



perhaps you might be out on busi- 
ness, prospecting or something. Well, 
so long." 

A thin veil of gloom hung over 
the camp two mornings later and 
it was not due to the chilly fact that 
we had breakfasted by candle light 
at five o'clock. We were to move 
camp that day to the spot on 
Beaver Lake that Bobbie and George 
had decided was the very heart of 
moose country. The Tevi, as well 
as Nimrod and I, had had much 
experience "jest travellin' " in horse 
country. We knew its limitations 
and its possibilities in the matter 
of transportation of luggage. But 
not so in canoe country. And un- 
fortunately, as it proved, Bobbie 
had become imbued with the idea 
that one could transport a very 
liberal allowance of 'duffel,' per 
canoes. 

"A big canoe holds a thousand 
pounds, you know, and if one likes 
a few extra things, it only means 
running the portage another time," 
he said comfortably. This speech 
was called forth by a suggestion 
from George that it would be well 



to wait another day and divide the 
moving, as we did when estabHsh- 
ing Camp Muscalonge. This meant 
delay and we had been delayed 
enough already. Iron necessity 
would call his guests away in an- 
other week. Bobbie pointed out 
that the first moving had been done 
in "two easy days, and that there- 
fore one hard day would do the 
other? Wouldn't it?' 

George thus challenged, did not 
stand his ground. He merely re- 
marked with a shrug, "You are the 
boss." So what happened really 
was his fault, for he knew such a 
move to be an impossibility, and 
should have said so. 

The outdoor man, bom and reared 
in the open, will take chances any 
time rather than incur the possi- 
bility of being thought cowardly. 
Is it a sort of fatalistic attitude 
that springs from dealing with forces 
stronger than themselves, stronger 
in every way, save for the uncon- 
querable will that makes humans 
divine ? 

So we breakfasted before day- 
light, and tried not to notice the air 



,vv^ 



of dogged reserve with which each 

man worked. He knew it could 

WSW<W-^ not be done but he was wilHng to 

W^SCwlx'^i ^^Y' since that was what he had been 

W^^H^\0^ engaged for, and leave the issue to 

i'^dti^^^M^ ^^^^- Creche, as usual the only 

y imvyj^ talkative one, expressed his mixed 

''l/j^ ideas in equally mixed dialect. 

» "Shure Mr. Tevis, mon. We'll try 
ze thrick. Zere is no buck on ze 
Ottawa can carry more zan Creche. 
Grace a Dieti, je siiis fort comme le 
boeuf. Creche will show you what 
a man can do to-day. I sucked 
strength in wif my mower's milk, 
and her mower was an Indian prin- 
cess who " 

At this point the Cook threw at 
him an empty water pail. 

"Here fill that, and work your 
legs instead of your jaw for a while." 
There were no idle hands that 
morning, and by ten o'clock we 
actually had gotten packed up and 
all the stuff moved across the Lake 
to the first portage, which was 
about a mile long. 

It was there that Bobbie got his 
first shock. Two of the canoes had 
made a second trip. He had no 



349 ( 



idea that our belongings would not 
go into the five canoes. Sally at 
the risk of being mobbed, suggested 
that "like dough they seemed to 
swell when needed." 

' ' But after all, even if we do have 
too much for the canoes, it is not very 
serious. It will not take long to 
run back on the water as we must do 
on the carrys," said our host. 

It seemed easy to me — then. Bert 
overhearing this remark smiled 
grimly, swung a seventy-five pound 
top pack onto his hundred-pound 
back pack and trotted along the tra il. 
One by one, the men took up their 
burdens adjusted tump lines and 
disappeared. There was no hurry 
for us. Bobbie estimated that each 
man would have run the trail three 
times. 

Lading ourselves with guns, fish- 
ing tackle, cameras, all the goodly 
paraphernalia of sport, we four filed 
along a trail which showed the hob- 
nailed prints of George and Arthur, 
the pointed shape of Bert's American 
gear, the oblong outline of Creche 's 
moccasined foot, and the shapeless 
tracks of the Cook, who had encased 




his "left walker wounded in the 
war" and now tortured by rheu- 
matism, in wrappings of gunny 
sack. 

It was a jewelled morning. Delib- 
erately we cast away carking care 
and gave our senses to the exquisite 
bit of the world about us. The sun- 
light, brilliant and calm, dappled 
through a grove of spruce and black 
birch in great splotches of yellow, 
seeking out the dainty arbutus that 
spread its dark serrated leaves in 
modest profusion, and flashing into 
greater beauty the strange shape 
and colours of the pitcher plant, 
the orchid of the North. 

The grove ended at the bank of 
a stream which we crossed on step- 
ping stones and forthwith entered 
a vast clearing on which the sun 
beamed its full noon rays unchecked. 
A generation ago, it too had nour- 
ished a proud forest of primeval 
growth, but the lumberman's axe 
had smitten it away and the earth 
had long since donned its resigna- 
tion garb of waving feathery grasses, 
scarlet and blue-fruited bushes, and 
wide stretches of the free-flowering 




bracken, now in autumn browns 
and sun-dried sweetness. 

In the tempting fragrance and 
warmth of this we dropped to rest. 
The men had all passed us on the 
return trip and now coming toward 
us was a big canoe, bottom side up. 
The trim athletic grey legs under it 
belonged to Bert. It passed with- 
out comment. Another canoe equal- 
ly large, came walking toward us on 
sturdy brown legs in hobnailed boots. 
It also passed in silence. Another 
smaller canoe appeared on some- 
what bowed legs and moccasined 
feet. It did not silently pass. When 
it got within hearing distance, it 
began to puff and blow and finally 
swung off its base altogether and 
descended to the ground, revealing 
Creche, who mopped his dripping 
brow. 

"You'll do well to rest, since 3^e's 
can. Le soleil bride comme tons. 
II fera une bonne omelette de moil" 

"Can all the stuff be brought in 
another trip?" asked the host. 

Creche swung the canoe into 
travelling position, carefully shifted 
it to the proper balance, and then 



flung out carelessly. "Shure! one 

more or t'ree or five;" and 

went his way whistling a chanson 
"A la ires bonne, a la tres belle" which 
stopped as soon as he was out of 
sight. 

At one o'clock we and our chattels 
were occupying plenty of space at 
the head of a small stream that led 
into Big Dam Lake. The men had 
run that portage five times each; 
twelve miles already, half of it 
heavily laden. Breakfast, eight 
hours ago, long since had been for- 
gotten. They must have food at 
least. We were less than half way 
and the ' ' long portage ' ' yet to come. 
The muscles and veins on the men's 
necks stood out like whipcords and 
their hands trembled from strain 
and fatigue. But they denied being 
tired, only "hot and hungry." 

I have frequently observed that 
the voyageur is ashamed to be tired, 
but proud of being hungry. It was 
four miles on Big Dam Lake. 

"The canoeing would be a rest," 
quoth Bobbie. 

It was not a pleasant four miles. 
Our canoe was undeniably toj>heavy. 



"It's all right," Bert reassured, "We 
can keep it balanced when we get in." 

By dangerously overloading the 
canoes we managed to get all the 
luggage aboard save "a few things 
we did not need immediately and 
could be sent for to-morrow." 

A jeering friend in a dream city, 
called New York, had presented 
me with two pairs of "water wings." 
I may briefly state for the benefit 
of those who have never made the 
acquaintance of these little objects, 
that they are irregular- shaped bags, 
like the map of North and South 
America, joined by the Isthmus of 
Panama. When inflated and placed, 
the Isthmus across the body and the 
Americas under the arms of a 
person in the water, they are sup- 
posed to keep said person from sink- 
ing. When I watched Sally, crawl 
into her canoe while three men held 
it from capsizing and gazed awe- 
somely at the subsequent "trim- 
ming" and adjusting of its bulging 
contents to make it ride even, I 
forthwith handed her a pair of 
aniline-pink water wings as a token 
of my affection. She was inclined 





to be trivial about my gift until she 
saw a similar pair soaking in the 
water beside me. 

I mention this incident as it 
occasioned the only shaft of amuse- 
ment that pierced the gloom slowly 
deepening upon the men. It was 
like the odour of a bear's skull that 
Clifford had killed the winter before 
and hung on a stick near the trail, 
the pervasiveness of which had 
fraught the lunch hour with un- 
pleasant suggestion. 

A horse with a load beyond its 
capacity bucks it off or lies down. 
A top-heavy canoe is like an un- 
broken mustang. It follows no laws. 
It turns and whirls and does queer 
lurches that give one the unwelcome 
feelings of a sudden up- shooting 
elevator, and ours was withal so 
cranky and unmanageable that only 
Bert's expert paddling again and 
again, when we were almost over, 
saved our possessions at least from 
a watery annihilation. Of course / 
was quite safe for had I not my 
water wings? Ready for immediate 
service, they trailed in the water, two 
fat pink balloons, and I have no 



doubt that they averted disaster, 
Uke the possession of an accident 
policy; for witness the misfortune 
of the Cook, minus the "W. W." 
His canoe struck a snag, turned 
turtle with a facility that was shame- 
less and deposited that rheumatic 
veteran in three feet of water with 
his cooking utensils and food. There- 
fore, we were all concerned. Lucky 
it was for us that it happened on a 
sandy bar and that the food was 
nearly all in tins and waterproof 
bags. 

This mishap did not tend to 
disseminate ease in the overcharged 
atmosphere of the party. As we 
reached the landing of the long 
portage a horrible odour greeted 
us beside which the bear's skull had 
been as child's play. Pestilence 
and death seemed abroad, Nimrod 
quickly found the cause — another 
pleasantry of Clifford's. As wolves 
are the enemies of game, it was his 
province as game warden to exter- 
minate them. A grey wolf had been 
caught in a trap, and in order to 
make him a warning for his fellows 
to quit the neighbourhood, Clifford 




had suspended his victim from the 
branch of a tree. This was months 
ago. Few wild animals will go near 
an unusual object, especially with 
vy>i^^ w^iK^ man taint on it, and there it had 
w"^l^%0y' remained undisturbed, given over to 
ikif^^HW^ slow decay and taking its revenge 
■/ ilj))!'^^ by polluting the air for yards around. 
It was to this distressing accom- 
paniment that Bobbie reviewed 
the situation. It was now four 
o'clock. By the most cheerful reckon- 
ing we could not hope to reach the 
new camp ground before ten and it 
grew dark by seven. To be sure 
there ought to be a moon and "the 
bo3^s would have to come back the 
next day anyway and could gather 
up what things we lost in the dark- 
ness." Bobbie did not want his 
guests to suffer another day's delay 
in tiresome transit, since their time 
was limited. To camp there was 
impossible, the wolf claimed it all. 
Therefore he decided to push on. 
Again another pile was left to be 
" brought to-morrow " and he judged 
that three trips apiece would take 
the necessities. Even that would 
make twelve miles more for each. 



357< 



The burden of possessions weighed 
heavily upon us. I thought of Bert's 
story of the divided pockethand- 
kerchief and felt that one would be 
courageous to keep even the half 
with the hole in it. The hole would 
have been burden enough. 

The long portage trail was rough, 
hilly and boggy and obstructed by 
fallen trees, but Sally and I hurried 
along to "get away from the dead 
wolf," we said. I dare say we felt 
alike. Not inheriting the blood and 
traditions of Indian priests, we did 
not enjoy the idea of human sacrifice, 
nor care to watch the efforts of our 
guides with those ungodly packs. 
Several times we had found it ex- 
pedient to rest, light though our 
pockethandkerchiefs were, and when 
we reached the next water, the sun 
was waning, somewhat earlier than 
usual, as it was beginning to snow. 

" The snow will make good track- 
ing" we said, trying to be cheerful. 
This trail end was an impossible 
place even for a one-night camp. 
It was cut through a dense grove of 
jack pines and down timber. There 
was not even a shore. The steep 




clay bank was fringed with alders 
and dropped abruptly into the 
water. 

"We cannot stay here, that is 
sure," puffed Bobbie after he had 
thrown down a pack that was too 
heavy for him and gotten his breath 
a little, though he was still purple. 
Nimrod now came staggering up, 
pale and exhausted, with my bundle 
of bedding. I was seriously alarmed 
for him as he rested the pack on a 
stump and thus let it slip to the 
ground. 

Sally surveyed the two heroes and 
remarked that it might be well to 
remember that we were there for 
pleasure and not to kill ourselves, 
whereupon Bobbie voiced his grow- 
ing irritation. He was not angry 

with Sally perhaps it is the duty 

of wives, now and then to open the 
husbandly safety valve, even though 

they catch some of the steam 

but he was a man accustomed to 
successfully carrying through big 
enterprises and this little muddle 
was galling. 

" I want you not to talk nonsense, 
Sally. We are going on I say. I 



gave George, as spokesman of the 
boys, an opportunity to back out 
last night. He knew that it could 
not be done and did not say so. 
Now they can take their medicine." 

"But " 

"This is no time for 'buts,'" he 
called as he started back on the 
trail, limping sadly. 

" Bobbie, Bobbie, you will hurt 
yourself. Comeback!" 

Too late, the irate Bobbie dis- 
appeared and Nimrod followed, stay- 
ing only long enough to light a fire 
for us. It had to be a tiny fire in 
the trail, as there was not a foot's 
space clear from logs and trees; 
and Sally and I were left to await 
developments. 

It seemed a long time, we were 
hungry and cold and depressed with 
a sense of foreboding. At last the 
Cook appeared, empty-handed. He 
limped along slowly and sat down 
on a log with his back to us. He 
said never a word, but the fact that 
he had "struck" was apparent in 
every line of him. 

Next came Arthur. He flung his 
pack upon the ground and sat upon it. 



Bert, immediately behind him, 
slipped his huge pack oft on a log 
and slowly straightened himself to 
an upright position. He slid down 
the steep bank and into a canoe 
where he could surreptitiously bathe 
his head. 

Each had the air of doing nothing 
more, no matter what happened. 
We all sat like graven images, so 
motionless and quiet that a weasel, 
shyest of creatures, actually played 
about among us. It darted over 
Sally's skirt, and getting bolder, 
over my foot. It sniffed the straps 
of the roll under Arthur and ate 
some bread crumbs that had 
tumbled out of the Cook's pocket 
when he had put on his coat. 

Nimrod and Bobbie, arriving to- 
gether, at last broke the spell. Puf- 
fing and panting, purple and white 
they dropped their packs. Cer- 
tainly neither had ever carried such 
loads before, but they wanted to 

show those men that it was not 

such a task. Silently they stood and 
read the message of silence that was 
presented there in the snowy woods. 

Then Nimrod started to chop 




WE ALL Sat like graven images 



3(>:^^ 



some wood for the fire that sadly 
needed replenishing, though no one 
had offered to lift an axe. 

Bobbie went from red to white 
with anger. He opened his mouth 
to speak and shut it again tight. It 
was unthinkable that these men 
would leave us stranded here in the 
woods and with women in the party 
too, and yet that ugly sullen silence 
was ominous. 

Fortunately, our mountebank of 
a camp boy now came along puffing 
vociferously, like an engine blowing 
off steam. As usual he was pre- 
paring a dramatic entrance. Down 
came the pack with a great 
flourish. 

"Zere! Zat is ze last ounce that 
goes on Nat Creche' s back to-night. 
Not if you was ze Gabriel Angel or 
ze devil himself! Zere's man's 
work and zere is horse's work. I'll 
be no mule for any body. I'll give 
you a day's work, yes and two days' 
work but I won't be a pack horse, 
not if I know it. I'll hit the trail 
first/ And the boys are with me " 

One by one they nodded. There 
it was, out mutiny. Our host's 



face was a study. How he would 
have Hked to tell them what he 
thought about it, but it seemed 
wiser not. George had come up 
during Nate's tirade, 

"Are you in this conspiracy too?" 
Bobbie asked of him, in true et-tu- 
Brute style. George shrugged his 
shoulders shamefacedly. 

" We cannot possibly stay in this 
trail and there is not room to put 
up a tent," said Bobbie severely 
as though it was entirely George's 
fault, and perhaps it was. "It is 
snowing and the ladies must have 
some shelter; and I insist that they 
get it." 

" We stay right here, or Nate Creche 
does any way, and helps himself to 
grub too — I don't care who says 
what " 

" Shut up you empty-headed- 



but I will spare you Bobbie's re- 
marks so long pent up. He stopped 
shortly. 

Swearing at them was no way 
to treat men whose self-restraint 
was worn thin by fatigue and re- 
bellion; besides Bobbie was genuine- 
ly sorry for them and for himself 



and for the whole predicament, still 
he could not give in. 

George's mental processes were 
slow, but sound. He now made 
speech, his drawl more pronounced 
than usual, and to our infinite relief 
pointed a way by which our host 
could retreat with dignity, 

"If I remember rightly, Clifford 
has a winter shack somewheres on 
this lake. He told me how to find 
it. It might do for the ladies." 

"Very well, get the lantern and 
we will hunt for it. Meanwhile boys, 
Bobbie added diplomatically, "you 
all better help the Cook find some 
food." 

Hot soup has palliated many a 
threatening situation, both domestic 
and national, and it served its peace- 
ful mission that night. The danger 
of the abrupt termination of our 
pleasure party was averted, although 
Creche, who could not be verbally 
suppressed when excited, said enough 
in his spasmodic mutterings to make 
it clear that the acid of rebellion 
had almost destroyed the sense of 
justice and it would not have taken 
many ill-chosen words on Bobbie's 



part to have left him facing the 
problem of desertion, " ladies or no 
ladies." 

But a wise general knows when to 
surrender. Bobbie returned with 
the welcome news that the little 
log shelter had been "located" and 
leaving the guides to rest as best 
they could on the damp, uneven, 
log-choked ground, we put our bed- 
ding in two canoes and, like spirits 
of the dark, stole across the tiny 
lake, where a pale and watery moon 
now shining through the thin snow 
veil, revealed a ghostly object not 
wrought by nature. A tiny dirty 
place it was, hardly room for the 
four of us on the floor, but we, in- 
different to all but the claims of 
tired muscles, and curtained by the 
dark, crawled into our sleeping bags 
and soon at least some of us were 
vying with the wood borers in pro- 
ducing rhythmic noise upon the 
midnight air. 





ONE MOOSE IN PARTICULAR 

HOvSE early October 
dayvS at Camp Moose 
were cold but delight- 
ful. We were truly in 
the very heart of moose 
country. Tracks were 
everywhere and we had even heard 
two cows calling at different times in 
a little bay not half a mile from 
camp. Just at dusk the first call 
came thrilling through the air. It 
seemed as though some magic power 
had lifted the veil that shuts out 
man from the four-foots, and, thus 
revealed, the strange beauty of it 
held me breathless. 



,368 




Although the party was entitled 
to four moose under the law, we 
intended to take but one. Bobbie 
and Sally had each killed a moose 
the year before, so again to the guest 
fell the favour of depriving some 
majestic creature of his life that his 
head might bear witness of his glory 
long after his allotted time had 
passed. 

I accepted the office of gun bearer 
because Bobbie would have felt a 
mooseless trip to be lacking a neces- 
sary savour — and there was a cer- 
tain wall space in an Eastern country 
home that had long proclaimed itself 
an appropriate setting for a "big 
head." Therefore if fate offered a 
sufficiently large one I was to play 
Diana. 

In order to assist fate as much as 
possible, daily we hunted and almost 
daily saw big game. Twice had Nim- 
rod vindicated the hoodoo horn by 
calling out a bull moose on gallant 
errand bent, and after inspection 
each had been allowed to retire, 
disappointed and suspicious, saved 
by a too modest growth of armament. 

After my second refusal to " shoot 



3691 



anyway" I heard Bert sum up the 
situation to the Cook. He seemed 
to feel it necessary to explain, for 
his pride's sake, as we came back 
so often empty handed. 

" She wants a gee socker or none. 
No picayune headpiece need apply. 
Mr. Nimrod can sure call 'em out 
with that fool horn. That fellah 
to-day was easy. ■ Could most have 
clubbed him." 

One morning the Tevi were going 
on a still hunt for deer and Nimrod 
preferred to accompany them. Bert 
and I were off at daybreak on our 
quest. We reached a little cran- 
berry bog that pushed out from the 
usual wooded shore. Wrapped in 
a white mist we waited and listened 
for something afoot on the game 
trail that was near by. Slowly the 
white mist became thinner, then 
rosy, and the familiar day-time forms 
took shape in shadowy blurred gar- 
ments, that in time gently glided 
from them. The silence too awoke, 
performing that subtle change that 
marks a sleeper's return to conscious- 
ness, though there be no motion of 
the body. The penetrating early 





chill departed and 
welcomed. 

Beaching the canoe we started 
through the dripping bushes, head 
high, to explore this new region. 
Bert, examining the plentiful tracks, 
indicated — one does little talking — 
that a big moose had gone along a 
very short time before, Avas probably 
in the neighbourhood. With great- 
est care not to be noisy and with 
the quickened nerves and breath 
that always comes when stalking, 
we came to a tiny lake, embedded 
in the forest and on which the 
shadows still lingered. The moose 
tracks led around it but I stopped 
to get breath. The excitement of 
something impending seemed to 
sadly interfere with it. I felt there 
was moose very near. 

I pointed to Bert to give a call 
with the hoodoo horn. He was not 
a caller and shook his head. A per- 
emptory nod from me brought a 
shrug of the shoulder, which meant 
"very well, since you insist, I will 
try." He gave two low grunts that 
a cow sometimes makes when a bull 
is near. 



ACROSS THE TINY LAKE LOOMED A MAGNIFICENT ANIMAL 



373 i 



Bert had not taken the horn from 
his Hps when I saw his body stiffen 
with attention, and the next instant 
I heard a low thudding that struck 
straight to my heart. It could mean 
but one thing, a heavy animal coming 
toward us on a run. 

Bert handed me the gun quickly. 
An angry bull moose at close quarters 
is not the safest form of entertain- 
ment. The thudding stopped sud- 
denly and at the same second burst 
upon me a beautiful vision. Across 
the tiny lake and above the low 
willows loomed a magnificent animal, 
head carried erect proudly he bore 
two broad blades of conquest. I 
even seemed to see the blazing 
glances that shot out from his eyes. 
A superb creature full of strength 
and beauty and passion. At his 
feet was the placid water doubling 
his stature in its mirror, beyond 
were the solemn masses of the forest, 
and now the sun seized that moment 
to surprise this secluded spot and 
struck a fitting bar of gold across 
the monarch's head. One foot up- 
lifted he paused listening for another 
sound to guide him t Dward his goal. 



He had expected to see his charmer 
at the lake and was a Httle puzzled. 

"Shoot, he'll go," whispered in 
my ear. 

"Isn't it too far?" I breathed. 
An impatient shake of the head 
answered. The moose had turned 
and stood entirely revealed in the 
sunlight. He threw up his head 
perhaps a little suspicious at the 
silence. "Quick, you'll never have 
another chance like this!" 

"Are you sure it is a big head, 
Bert?" The look of disgust that 
draped my guide from head to foot 
caused me to raise the gun. But 
it wobbled in every direction. I 
could not hold it up. All strength 
seemed to have left. Calling pride 
to the rescue I managed to get it 
into position, and, even, to aim 
carefully and fire. As I did so the 
great creature ttimed on his back 
track having decided that it was 
about time to go. He stopped as 
the sound of the explosion and then 
another went booming toward him. 
The sounds were the only things 
that did reach him, as the bullets 
struck far short in the water. 



375, 



" Quick, there is time for another, " 
but I could not, and the bull slowly 
disappeared. 

With voice still shaking with ex- 
citement, I exclaimed, " Bert, I am 
glad he got away! " at which speech 
Bert sat limply on a wet hummock, 
apparently deprived of all ambition. 

"Glad he got away." He re- 
peated half to himself. "That does 
beat all. I've seen 'em miss often 
enough, but I never seen one glad 
of it afore." 

I had missed my "gee socker" 
and forfeited the admiration of the 
camp. But the reward was great — 
a picture for all time that never fails 
to thrill me with excitement of that 
wonderful moment when Nature al- 
lowed me to take another lesson 
from her primer of the woods. 

It afforded Bert some consolation 
that his "party" had missed the 
"dead sure thing," because the gun 
sights had been knocked out in 
travelling: But I knew better. My 
gun may have been sighted for 
fifty yards and the distance two 
hundred, the shots may have been 
"dead line, all right, but terrible 



short, both bullets went in the same 
hole in the water" and so on. It 
was not for me to materialise that 
vision. " It was a fine head. Finest 
head as I ever see," and Bert sighed 
as he savagely rammed the cleaning 
rod down the barrel of my hapless 
gun. 

"The idea of hunting the critter 
with a toy like that," was the Cook's 
comment, looking with disfavour 
at my 30-30 Winchester carbine. 

" Don't blame the gun, " I pro- 
tested, cutting short these camp 
excuses. " It has brought down big 
game before and can do it again, if 
handled right." 

" Well, what do you think of that!" 
was Bobbie's comment; "misses her 
chance and says she's glad of it. 
That is the nerviest tale I ever 
heard. You want a moose, don't 
you?" he asked suddenly. 

"Ye-es — If it is a big one." I 
was beginning to feel the burden of 
my failure, popular opinion was 
against me, and in two days we were 
leaving. 

"Then come with me," said the 
host. " George knows of a splendid 



377 1 



place on Daly's Lake where a big 
fellow has been seen." 

"Very well, I will be ready in an 
hour." It was then the middle of 
the afternoon. I proceeded to ac- 
quire as many warm things as pos- 
sible, including a fur coat and a hot 
water bag, as sitting in a canoe 
motionless for hours while it gets 
colder and colder, is not the most 
comfortable way of putting in time; 
and leaving all detachable sentiment 
with Nimrod for safe keeping, I 
settled myself in the canoe with a 
" now or never and you know you 
want to" attitude of mind that 
boded ill for any moose with worthy 
antlers that was unlucky enough 
to get within range. 

The way to Daly's Lake took us 
past the scene of the morning's 
experience. Before re embarking Bert 
had made a little fire that I might 
thaw out. He had carefully scat- 
tered the brands as usual when we 
left; although there seemed small 
need of it as the woods were soaked 
from recent rains and melting snow. 

Now to my infinite chagrin, we 
saw that some treacherous spark 



had managed to maintain life, had 
smouldered for hours and then burst 
forth. There is no crime so black 
in camp life — short of murder — as 
"setting the woods on fire." Bert 
had taken all precaution, but how 
convince the host of that when the 
flames were crackling merrily and 
spreading every moment? Fortun- 
ately the mischief had but just 
begun, and an hour's hard work was 
sufficient to extinguish every spark 
beyond the possibility of a revival. 

This disgrace coupled with the 
disappointment already dealt the 
camp by me added the finishing 
touch to my present purpose. 

Henceforth there was no pity and 
no sentiment. My soul was no longer 
open to the beauty of the evening. 
It may have been beautiful, I only 
remember that it was cold, and that 
I sat in the middle of the canoe, gun 
in lap, alert for a chance to use it, 
as George propelled us swiftly, 
silently to a little bay in Daly's Lake 
that was half choked by bog and 
rank marsh grass. 

The sun had set, but there was 
plenty of half-light. I scanned the 




sky, not to see the twinkling North- 
em Lights, nor the orange and violet 
aftermath, but to calculate how 
much more time one could hope to 
have light enough to shoot by. 

Bobbie took up the hoodoo horn 
he had borrowed from Nimrod, and 
made a call. I remember fearing 
that it was hardly a good enough 
imitation to summon a moose. It 
might be more efficacious in driving 
one way, and I desired above all 
else that a moose should come and 
be killed. 

It might be an unfair advantage 
for human intelligence to lure the 
animal thus by his instinct, but it 
was the usual method — away with 
sentiment. Had I not left it behind 
at the camp? 

In fifteen minutes Bobbie gave 
another call. It shrieked and bel- 
lowed over the swale to the ridge 
beyond — and — was answered. This 
time I was disturbed by no quakes. 
[ gripped the gun — ready. In two 
minutes we heard the bugle again 
much closer. We could even hear 
the crashing of branches. A bull 
was coming, careless of noise, coming 




38c 



— coming on the run. It was an in- 
describable moment. That creature 
coming — on — on nearer — and me 
waiting to kill him, if I could. 

Once the faint noises that told of 
his progress, stopped And we won- 
dered anxiously if it could have been 
a bear we had heard. Or perhaps 
the bull was waiting for another 
call. But the slashing of bushes and 
breaking of sticks began again, louder 
than ever. Then we heard grunts! 
He was coming — closer and closer — 
awful moments, but I would not let 
myself think. I simply sat there — 
grim, tense, ready, until he should 
burst into the open. When he did, 
he seemed to fill the whole horizon. 
I had no need to ask about the great 
forest on his head which he tossed 
about like feathers, as up and down 
in the oozy, log-choked bog he on- 
ward strode. Through the swale 
straight toward us he came half- 
way, and paused. A tighter grip 
clutched my heart — now. I stood 
up in the canoe, George and Bobbie 
strained to hold it steady. I could 
see him better thus over the marsh 
grass. Eighty yards, perhaps, I 



thought. The deadly muzzle of my 
gun swung into focus on the great 
glistening mud-splashed shoulder — 
he turned his head from us, I remem- 
ber being glad as I pulled the trigger, 
that this lessened the chance of a 
mis-shot hitting the horns . 

A most unholy joy seized me when 
George cried! 

" He's hit! Give him another! " 

This is no place for the horrid 
details which I insist upon forgetting. 
In a quarter of an hour it was over. 
I was soaked in mud from waist 
down, having repeatedly slipped into 
the bog in my efforts to get to him 
quickly and put the finishing touch, 
so that he would not suffer. An 
overwhelming sense of relief rushed 
over me — unsportsmanlike, perhaps, 
but blessed. The icy grip of murder- 
ous intent relaxed and I felt once 
more human. 

The last of the half-light had gone 
now. We could do little more until 
morning, except to protect the pre- 
cious head from prowling four-foots 
and birds of the air. George's vest 
wrapped around the great square 
nose was sufficient for the former, as 



no wolf, coyote, or fox would go near 
that human taint on the vest, and 
my handkerchief tied on the highest 
horn tip would serve to scare away 
the latter. Even the fearless Whiska 
Jan would hesitate to approach any- 
thing so peculiar. 

Thus in the dark we left what an 
hour before had been one of the 
most superb animals of the woods, 
enjoying his birthright of life and 
power and beauty, and now — a mag- 
nificent set of antlers, the finest that 
had been taken out of that region 

in years, no longer his, but mine 

and a thousand pounds of carrion 
meat, a too royal banquet for the 
wolves. Perhaps the scales balanced : 
each must judge for himself. 

I deferred a verdict as we felt 
our course along the black and silent 
waterways to camp. 

Bobbie's exultation was unalloyed 
and infectious. His guest had up- 
held the honour of the camp — we 
had come there for moose; there- 
fore moose we must get — and had 
provided the fitting climax to the 
trip. 

Next morning when Bert saw the 




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Z 

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z 

o 

z 

Cd 
J 
J 
<3 

a 

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Q 
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a 



head he appeared to be mightily 
amused : 

" So you got him, after all! " 

"Got who?" 

" Why that is the fellow you were 
glad you did not shoot yesterday 
morning. He was meant for you 
all right. I told you he was a wonder. 
There ain't two heads like that in 
these parts. I noticed that right 
palm and split ear particular." 

My emotions at this information 
were varied. It was like finding 
that one had strangled the ghost of 
one's first love. The previous act 
of mercy was nullified — engulfed in 
the present deed. 

Also with the morning came the 
Scientist with calipers and rule, 
note-book and pencil. The much 
interesting information "my moose" 
furnished for the advancement of 
knowledge has no place in this record 
of experience and emotion, though 
it helped to make the scales balance. 

Nimrod also discovered, by her 
autograph of course, that a lady 
moose had visited this fallen mon- 
arch of her realm; perhaps in the 
moonlight had called gently, had 



386^ 



sniffed, advanced cautiously and 
sniffed again in surprise — had snorted 
then, with fear, and wheeling in her 
path, had fled from the prostrate 
form that never more would answer 
to her summons. 

For the last time we rose at dawn, 
as we had done so many times before, 
breaking ice in the water bucket that 
stood waiting at the door, when a 
far away sound held us listening. One 
is always three-fourths ears in the 
woods, as one is three-fourths eyes 
on the plains. 

"It is wolves " said Nimrod hurry- 
ing into more clothes. They are 
coming this way! 

The broken noises were getting 
louder and I could distinguish several 
voices in the chorus of yaps and howls. 

"It is their hunting cry" Nimrod 
interpreted excitedly. "They are 
chasing something — a deer, surely, 
by the way it travels." 

The din was now like a whole 
menagerie let loose. 

"The deer is hard pressed. The 
wolves are gaining on it. Hear 
them now!" The language of the 
wolves was no mystery to Nimrod. 



"Why her}" I asked. 

" Probably a doe, she is not putting 
up a very good fight. Listen, I 
believe she is leading them right into 
camp! " 

If she did, it would not be the first 
time we had known a wild animal 
at the point of death from its ene- 
mies, seek protection from the arch 
enemy, man, and with us the trust 
had never been betrayed. 

The incredible racket of that pack 
of hunting wolves about to close on 
its quarry, was blood curdling. They 
were not a hundred yards from us, 
when, like the shutting of a door, the 
hubbub stopped. The wolves had 
discovered the trick and, not daring 
to pursue farther, had slunk away, 
disappointed, vanquished for that 
time. 

Having accomplished her deliver- 
ance, the deer took no unnecessary 
chances with us, but sneaked off in 
another direction. 

We had seen nothing, but to those 
who had ears and understanding, the 
whole drama was as legible as a 
printed book. 

With this diploma from our " little 




brothers," to testify that although 
we often sUp back into the stone age 
attitude, we do have, and frequently 
use, the divine attributes of justice 
and mercy, we turned our feet once 
again toward the bricks and mortar, 
toward the frills of life, desirable 
and delicious, taxing and enervating. 

On an Eastern wall hangs a beau- 
tiful moose head with broad pal- 
mated antlers and gleaming tips, 
that like the magician's carpet is 
capable of transporting us at any 
time back to the days in the open, 
when blood ran through the veins, 
quick and red, when we worked, 
played, idled and rested with a vigour 
and a joy that never comes else- 
where. 

Perhaps the scales weighed even, 
after all. 








PART IV. 
IN NORWAY 




THE NEW HUNTING OF REINDEER 

WHEN I ATE THE CAKE AND 
HAD IT TOO 




HROUGH blood one 
may come to the light. 
Nations have too often 
shown lis this imper- 
fect way. Although 
never an enthusiastic 
murderer of animals, I, as already 
confessed, had not been proof against 
the temptation to secure a trophy 
"big head"; yet may I claim the 
grace of moderation in the face of 
unusual opportunity. Out of nine 
hundred and eighty-three deer 
counted in three weeks in the Flat- 



tops, nearly all within gunshot, I 
had taken but one. Of five hundred 
elk seen in the Jackson's Hole dis- 
trict, one; of eighty-six antelope in 
the Shoshones, one; of eleven bears 
in the Rockies, one; of a hundred 
coyotes, none (for reasons). How 
the alleged "fantail" and the moose 
came to join the group, has been 
duly set forth. 

Always but an incident, not the 
reason, for out-door living, to quote 
an ancient saying, I had " no further 
stomach" for killing; and when we 
started for Reindeer land, I laid my 
gun at the feet of this modem Nim- 
rod, indeed " a mighty hunter before 
the Lord" and became a devotee 
of the New Hunting. 

Armed with camera instead of 
gun, one receives in equal lavish 
measure the blessings of companion- 
ship with woods and waters ; one can 
steal from the animal his every 
beauty and yet leave him none the 
poorer. This ideal hunting requires 
all the skill of the old-fashioned 
gunner and much ingenuity besides, 
for an animal can be shot much 
farther away than photographed. 



And thus equipped we hied away to 
Norway, Nimrod and I, the hunter 
passion keen for our quarry, the 
reindeer, the Norway caribou. To 
wrest from it, if possible, not its hfe 
but its manner of Hfe; not its head 
with its bony processes without, 
but proofs of the mental processes 
within. 

Norway is a land of bare rocks, 
bleak wastes, and silent waters. Its 
charm gains slowly but, like the 
people, is of enduring quality. 

The uninviting uplands of dwarf 
half-frozen vegetation seem to stretch 
on to the world's end, and yet the 
houses are built small-footed and 
broad-shouldered, as though land 
were valuable, and of wood where 
wood is scarce and stone is aggres- 
sively abundant. The farm 
buildings, their thatched roofs well 
weighted with stones, huddle close 
to form a bulwark against the winter 
drifts, and often an extra barrier 
against the Snow King is carefully 
up-thrown. The saeter that shelters 
solitary herdsmen of the rensdyr, 
is a habitation merely, the next 
remove from a cave dwelling, and 






the farmers' houses 
but little. 

Stern as their hoifjeldene, sturdy 
as the little horses they rear, are 
the people, fearless as f. e wolver- 
ine, and inheriting the silent depths 
of their gloomy beautiful fiords. 
They laugh, it is the sunlight on the 
mountains, yet one does not forget 
the half-year winter night. They 
save, niggard Nature makes provi- 
dent man. Every wisp of hay is 
garnered and cured as one would 
herbs, on a frame. The crop from 
a grass patch no bigger than a city 
back yard, tucked among the cliffs 
high in the air, is sent down by 
means of a hay-wire to the little 
farm-house, itself clinging to the 
mountain side with an air that some- 
day it may forget and topple into 
the deep waiting fiord beneath. 

Those quiet fiords ! the little cough- 
ing steamer that daily bustles 
through, bearing its human freight 
from the outside world, like a bum- 
ble bee before a brooding storm, 
only enhances their silence. Be- 
tween the fiords and stringing them 
together, gem after gem, run kilos 



and kilos of ribbon roads. Here one 
takes no iron horse, but an open 
carriage and rough-coated ponies; 
and one travels at pleasure, the 
summer is always light, midnight 
or noon the majestic scenery is 
unfolded with compelling beauty. 

Thus for days Nimrod and I 
travelled and came to Nystuen, back 
of which on the uplands we were 
to hunt the reindeer. We had 
carefully transported our weapons, 
two cameras, and saved our ammu- 
nition, so that we had several dozen 
rounds of shots, and we longed to 
" bag some game. " But the inhabi- 
tants of Nystuen move slowly and 
entertain an Oriental attitude to- 
ward foreign women. 

" Yes, there were reindeer back 
on the hills, several thousand of 
them. Yes, we could go to them. 
Yes, Updal had come back only the 
day before and knew where they 
were, but better not go to-day, 
perhaps to-morrow. Yes, there were 
ponies to ride, but better wait." 

This went on for several days 
which Nimrod put in, however, 
sketching a pulk-buk, a most moth- 



396 





eaten specimen of a tame reindeer, 
and the harness and pulk, a boat 
shaped sled. I took a ride in this 
rensdyr pulk on the grass, there 
being no convenient snow- patch, and 
found it strange, uncomfortable loco- 
motion. 

The pulk is drawn by a single 
thong; the reindeer is guided by 
another thong, swung in the direction 
one desires to go. There is nothing 
between one's low crouching self, 
and some clicking free-fiying hoofs, 
but training and inherent courtesy. 
Stories are not lacking, indeed, of 
angered pulk-deer turning on their 
drivers, whose safety depended upon 
the agility with which the pulk could 
be capsized with the driver inside. 

Though absolutely wild, the rein- 
deer herds back of Nystuen are kept 
track of by a herder and his dog, 
usuall}^ a sharp-nosed canine, wolfish 
in colour and attributes. Together 
they spend solitary weeks in the 
region the herds favour, rendering 
occasional service to a simla (mother 
doe) protecting her rens kalv from 
a wolverine or a venturesome bear 
that may have been lured so high 



3971 



by the hope of a dainty meal. Six 
weeks the herder daily endeavours 
to locate the reindeer, seeking his 
shelter in one of the many saeters 
that dot the hills; then he is relieved 
by another youth equally hardy and 
knowing not fear. Periodically some 
lusty deer give up their lives that 
man may live the fatter, the meat 
being used as beef is in America. 
Delicious we found it, when properly 
prepared. 

Indeed the reindeer is a host in 
himself for the North Country 
dwellers. They drive him, they 
hunt him, they wear him, they eat 
him and still remains the bloom of 
his wild inheritance that pervades 
the spirit of the people, their tra- 
ditions and their literature. 

The Spanish makana, the English 
to-morrow, the Norwegian — never 
mind — are synonyms, all mean post- 
pone the evil. There was obviously 
a hitch; at the end of a week 
we got no nearer the reindeer 
herds. Something was preventing. 
I determined to discover what. 
Half an hour's work with the 
interpreter, consisting principally 




of silences, divulged the awful 
secret. 

Madam was to accompany her 
husband, and in all Nystuen, a hamlet 
of three houses, there was not a 
side-saddle ! 

The next morning two buff- 
coloured stocky animals with 
roached manes and flowing tails 
were waiting saddled in the stable 
yard. Madam had declared she 
cared not what the animal wore so 
long as it would carry her. The 
statement had evidently brought 
welcome release from responsibility. 
Gravely, Updal the guide, who was 
to walk, presented a hand for assis- 
tance in mounting. An English 
jockey-pad about the size of a post- 
age stamp, unfortunately not as ad- 
hesive, was perched on a broad flat 
back, two diminutive stirrups hung 
from it and the girth was a piece of 
hemp rope. A snaffle-bit was held 
in the animal's mouth by a piece of 
twine and sheer equine amiability. 
Without comment on either side, I 
was assisted on to this circus-backed 
steed thus panoplied for unpathed 
wastes and gathering up the twine, 



of different sizes knotted together, 
that did duty for reins, started on 
the long march back into the snow- 
patched hills, hunting in its own 
country, the swift-footed, wary 
reindeer. 

At first we passed clumps of the 
tasselated dwarf willow, and the 
straggling ground Juniper displaying 
its cheery red beads; near the bogs 
grew the white ttifts of the cotton- 
grass and, in patches, was a favourite 
reindeer food, rensblomst, a short- 
stemmed white flower shaped like 
an overgrown buttercup. Then, 
as one ascended came only an occa- 
sional black birch, twisted and feeble 
as a rickety child with the struggle 
for life in its harsh home. One of 
these harboured a hardy field-fare 
that had nested and brought 
her brood almost to the flying stage, 
when our coming threw her into a 
state of wild excitement. She darted 
back and forth over our heads utter- 
ing a harsh cry and discharging at 
us several volleys from her natural 
weapon. Doubtless she had never 
before seen an unwinged biped giant 
so unpleasantly near, and though 




altogether uncalled for, her coura- 
geous resistance must be judged from 
her own standard. It was a pretty 
exhibition of mother defence, while 
the babies in the birch cheeped and 
cheeped. 

They were the last of the breath- 
ing things; such a dead country! Its 
talent of stones and moss wrapped 
in a serviette of snow, and buried 
— preserved but unproductive. On 
and on we pushed for hours. Little 
pools of melted snow rested in the 
hollows, the tiny red cups of bugle 
moss on stiff grey stems nestled 
against the southern rocky surfaces, 
which, somewhat chilly stoves, catch 
and hold what heat there is. It w^as 
approved reindeer country. Every 
moment we scanned the distant 
slopes for some moving object that 
could mean but one thing. 

The morning wore aw^ay, the after- 
noon was nearly gone. Of course, 
there was no dark to fear as the night 
hours approached, but there w^ere 
other considerations, such as food 
and rest and a glowing fire, those 
" chill ancestral spaces " pall in time, 
especially as the day had been one 



long acrobatic endeavour to keep the 
postage stamp on top of my charger. 
Once he sneezed and lost his bit, so 
careless of him, but with grave con- 
cern the string was readjusted behind 
his ears by the string man, who 
was never far away. 

Seven o'clock and still no sign. 
Updal on a boulder had been looking 
long toward the west; suddenly 
he slipped down the east side and 
motioned for us to dismount noise- 
lessly and anchoring the horses with 
stones, led an elaborate stalk to the 
crown of a near hill. On raising 
our heads over it cautiously, a great 
sweep of desolation came in view. 
At first I saw nothing different, then, 
about a mile off a brown patch like 
a dried leaf on a sheet began to move 
zig-zag slowly then swiftly in a 
straight line and disappeared. It 
was my first glimpse of reindeer. 
Over a thousand were in the herd, 
Updal said, as we hurried forward. 
They had been feeding and had not 
become visible until passing over 
the snow surface and they had dis- 
appeared for me where the brown- 
grey earth swallowed their colour 




again. Fortunately, unalarmed they 
were coming diagonally toward us. 
I saw them again nearer and they 
looked like maggots crawling swiftly 
along. 

Another hour of patient progres- 
sion behind sheltering knolls and 
boulders, when Updal motioned for 
still greater care and to get ready to 
'shoot.' 

The silence of that man-neglected 
place was broken by a curious low 
sound, like the noises of stiff paper 
being crumpled, or of a Katydid 
chorus muffled to pianissimo; this 
sank away into the quiet, then began 
again louder. Updal pulled us 
still closer into the hollow where 
we were hidden. The noises stopped 
again. Quickly he urged us between 
some boulders and around a little 
knoll; then a wonderful vision pre- 
sented itself, a great herd of grey- 
brown animals with snag-like antlers, 
suggesting a flooded forest, were 
grouped between a lakelet and some 
rock- walled steeps, a family party 
at home in a most appropriate 
reindeer drawing-room. Quietly 
were they feeding, some drinking at a 




A REINDEER DRAWING ROOM 



grey-eyed pool, a stmla was nursing 
her kalv, a young white buk was 
scratching his hardening horn with 
a casual hind foot. Two nekker 
were butting each other in youthful 
play. We were admitted to the 
mysteries of their wild life. So 
fascinated, I almost forgot the hunt- 
er's duty, but quickly fired a shot. 

The herd was drifting our way 
and the wind was right, so we waited. 
At forty yards I fired again and got 
what proved a fine picture. Still 
they came. Finally when one huge 
buck was within twelve feet I snapped 
again. The click of the camera 
— always that mischievous click — 
betrayed me, the buck threw up his 
head, gave the loud alarm-snort. 
Every head went up and snorted. 
The herd wheeled about. Whiff! 
the paper crackling of their hoofs 
rippled from end to end as they 
swayed to the right, to the left and 
were gone. They did not seem to 
walk or run, they simply went, with 
a crash of little clicks that the hooves 
made when raised. 

They were gone; but they had 
left the memory of their presence 




and the u.n warmed, unflowered coun- 
try was desolate no longer. I had 
seen the life it cherishes and as the 
spirit of an owner pervades his room 
though absent, this vast attic of the 
world seemed a proper setting for 
those mild-eyed silver-coated crea- 
tures, descended from the North 
Wind. 

Carefully we carried our hunting 
trophies back to Nystuen, an easy 
matter, several hundred reindeer 
had but the weight of a sheet of 
paper; and although antiquities are 
honourable, one time-worn adage 
must be cast ofif, as a rensdyr casts 
his winter coat, for we had managed 
to " eat the cake and have it too." 





MAY 10 I90r 







LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



DaDlfi7m73T 



Mm- 

m 



